Blood & Iron
by JA Baker
Summary: An  Imperial Guardsman assigned to a covert Adeptus Mechanicus archaeological dig stumbles upon an ancient weapon that may just be enough to finally end the cycle of war engulfing the galaxy...
1. Blood & Iron

Warhammer 40,000 was created and is owned by Games Workshop  
>The Bolo universe was created by Keith Laumer and is, I believe, owned by Baen Books<br>All recognised characters are the intellectual property of their respective creators and publishers  
>This story may not be sold or distributed on a profit-making basis<br>With thanks to Deadguy2001 and X on for all their help

**Blood & Iron**

There were days when Luka Hoban regretted joining the Imperial Guard rather than going to prison.

Yes, it had gotten him out of the crime-ridden underhive he had been born into, and he had probably lived far longer than he would have if he'd stayed. But he had also faced the enemies of mankind on more worlds than he could count in his two years of service. He had faced the horrors of the Ork Hordes, the chitinous terrors of the Tyranids and even the foul, traitorous Daemons of Chaos. It was only the enigmatic Eldar that he had yet to face in battle, and he was in no hurry to do so.

But his latest assignment was boring to the point where he almost missed combat.

The Adeptus Mechanicus had located a complex dating back to the Dark Age of Technology and were intent on exploring it to see if anything could be used for the Emperor and Imperium, as quietly as possible, given that they could not space the forces such an undertaking would normally be guarded by. Hoban's regiment had been sent to guard the dig-site and scout around the outlying area for anything the first team had missed. It wouldn't have been such a bad mission, had the planet been inhabited, rather than a lifeless ball of rock with an atmosphere that was only just breathable without the need for cumbersome and uncomfortable gas masks.

"Sector 17; nothing to report." Hoban reported over his radio, slinging his laser rifle, "Praise be the Emperor."

It was scut work, better suited for a raw recruit rather than someone with years of combat experience under his belt. But Hoban had yet again made the mistake of running his mouth off in front of Sergeant Fargo again, and as such had been selected for 'disciplinary duty', one of the gruff, hard-ass NCO's favourite punishments for minor acts of insubordination. The one good thing about it was that he partner was Guardswoman Valerie Drake, his squads new plasma gunner, and if he wasn't very much mistaken, the young blond had taken an interest in him.

The row of ruined buildings seemed to stretch on for ever, still clearly visible even after millennia, a testament to whatever strange materiel had made them. There were signs that indicated other's had already done their best to scavenge what they could from amid the piles of twisted metal and crumbling stone, and Hoban was convinced that the mission would come to nothing. But that was the Adeptus Mechanicus' mistake to make, and he wasn't going to begrudge any mission that got him off the front line and away from the never-ending war that consumed the galaxy. Whatever catastrophe had stuck this would had rendered it uninhabitable and destroyed almost every last trace of its former population. Only a few isolated ruins remained of what had once probably been a thriving world. Hoban wasn't a coward; he had the scars and commendations to prove otherwise, but he was a realist, and he knew that, one day, he would give his life in the service of the Emperor, as was fitting. But anything that put that day off just a little longer, and maybe gave him a chance to know Drake a little better, was something he could agree to.

"_All teams stand by._" Fargo's voice came over the radio, "_Our sensors have picked up something on the Northern perimeter._"

Hoban shrugged; they were assigned to the south, far away from anything that might be happening. He turned to say something to Drake, not noticing the oddly coloured parch of dirt beneath his feet until it gave way and he found himself plunging down into the darkness.

* * *

><p>"In the Emperor name!" Sergeant Fargo exclaimed as he looked at the feed coming from one of the forward scout units.<p>

The field base he was stationed in had been placed at the mouth of a small river, between two low ridge lines, one of which was capped with the ancient fortifications the Adeptus Mechanicus were so interested in. Unfortunately, it seemed that they weren't the only ones interested in picking over the bones of the long dead. From the north, a ravening mass of semi human abominations bearing the Eight pointed star surged forth, literally whipped into action by a score of fell, ceramite clad monsters. These heretical Astartes laughed gleefully as their barbed lashes ripped errant limbs, tentacles, and strips of flesh from their mutant charges. The Astartes were bad enough, but it was the earth shaking advance of the twin Defilers that set Fargo on edge, a pair of hideous mechanical centaur crabs stomping towards them, snorting fire and belching smoke like the Minotaur bulls of Terran legend. Fargo's men were quickly entrenching themselves in the Mechanicus facility, taking cover behind dilapidated walls and columns or ducking into hastily dug foxholes. What precious few heavy weapons they had were quickly unpacked and deployed, yet the familiar clacking and jangling of ammunition belts being fed into Heavy bolters and autocannons did little to reassure him.

Zooming in his binoculars, Fargo could see the battered and crucified forms of his scouts nailed to the front of the Defilers, some mercifully dead, while others thrashed and screamed in agony as they slowly suffocated. Such theatrics were hardly necessary; it was clear that the attackers had a clear numerical superiority, with more following in their wake. Unless, of cause, it was for their own twisted amusement.

He neither knew nor cared why the Ruinous Powers were so interested in a minor archaeological dig, just that the men and women under his command were about to die.

He glanced across to the corner where the detachments commanding officer sat huddled up, whimpering. Fargo didn't blame him; it was his first posting, supposedly an easy assignment to get him used to commanding men, some of whom had been fighting and killing since before he'd stopped sucking at his mothers teat. He was too young and too green to be faced with imminent death, but Emperor love him, he was an officer of the Imperial Guard, a graduate of one of the Schola Progenum: he should at least be able to face death with dignity. Grumbling a string of oaths under his breath, Fargo grabbed his gun and helmet and ran outside to take his place on the firing line.

Whatever happened, he and his men would hold the line. _Ave Imperator_.

* * *

><p>Hoban rose groggily, a sharp, stabbing pain filling his head as he looked around. He was on some kind of bed or couch, with what looked like medical sensors attached to his bare chest. The room was made of stark, gunmetal grey walls with a few consol's set against the walls. What looked like a reinforced hatch stood imposingly before him, evidently locked. To his left he could see Drake laid out on another couch, her body a mass of bruisers where she had obviously fallen in after him. Her eyes were closed, but the slow, steady rising of her chest indicated that she was alive.<p>

"Hello?" He croaked, his mouth dry, "Is there anybody there?"

A strangely distorted voice answered, Hoban only able to make out a few isolated words amid what sound like gibberish. He waited to see if it would return, but when it didn't, he tried to pull himself up, the left side of his chest protesting with the familiar ache of bruised if not cracked ribs.

"I would not do that if I was you." the voice returned, still distorted but at least understandable, "My apologies for before; I am still assimilating your syntax from intercepted radio traffic and extrapolating a translation matrix."

"Who..." Hoban coughed, "Who are you?"

"I am Unit ARC-953-201 Of The Line, but you may call me 'Archie'." The voice responded proudly, "I gage by your weapons and uniforms that you and your companion are soldiers, but I am so-far unable to identify your unit based on your insignia."

"Corporal Luka Hoban, Kappa Company, 2nd Battalion, 956th Dragoons." The Guardsman nodded, then nodded towards the other bed, "That's Guardswoman Valerie Drake." He rubbed his head, "Where are you, anyway?"

"I am all around you." Archie responded, sounding somewhat surprised, "Have you never encountered a Bolo before?"

"Mister, I've been in the Imperial Guards for two years now, and I ain't ever heard the world 'Bolo' used to describe anything but type of knife." Hoban shook his head, "I need to report in; the last thing I want to do is give Sargent Fargo another reason to chew my ass off."

"I'm am afraid that I am unable to assist you." Archie sounded genuinely saddened, "I am on standby mode; I was only able to assist you because you landed on my upper deck, tripping my proximity alarm."

"Wait a minute." Hoban held up a hand, "Why do you keep describing yourself like some kind of machine? And why won't you talk to me face-to-face?"

"Because I am a machine." Archie was back to sounding confused, "I am a Mk 33 Bolo unit assigned to the 431st Battalion of the Dinochrome Brigade. I served honourable in battle for over four-hundred years before being decommissioned and sent to this facility for long-term storage. I have tried to contact the base commander, to inform them of your accident and request assistance, but I am getting no response. Not even an automated signal from the depot computer."

"You...your a Machine Spirit?" Hoban almost fell off of the couch, "In the name of the Emperor, is this what the Adeptus Mechanicus were looking for?"

"I am sorry, but I am still having trouble translating what you are saying." Archie responded, "Do you represent the Concordiat of Man?"

"No, it's the Imperium of Man now." Hoban explained, "The Concordiat fell thousands of years before the Rise of the Emperor: I've only read about it in books."

"I see." There was a long pause, as if Archie was trying to work something out, "And this 'Imperium of Man' is now the lawful government of human-space?"

"Yes; under the guidance of the High Lords of Terra, and by the will of the God-Emperor Himself, we strive to protect mankind from the the Xenos and the Ruinous Powers." Hoban continued his explanation, "We were sent here to see if anything could be salvaged from the ruins of this base."

"And you found us." Archie sounded resolved, "If mankind is in danger, then we will not stand aside." A deep rumbling shook the room, surprising Hoban who had to grab the edge of the couch to avoid being thrown to the floor, "_**FOR THE HONOUR OF THE REGIMENT!**_"

* * *

><p>Fargo ducked to avoid a wildly swung axe then emptied his bolt pistol into the mutant that had tried to take his head off. The unfortunate mutant's head came apart in a shower of gore as the mass reactive bolt detonated inside its cranium, drenching the sergeant in blood and bits of gore. Wiping chunks of torso away from his eyes, the Sergeant surveyed the battlefield.<p>

They were holding the line far better than he had dared dream, but they were still slowly loosing ground, forced back step-by-step the the seemingly endless hoard before them. A pall of cloying grey smoke hung over the battlefield, ruptured only by the supersonic passage of bullets or the crimson thermal bloom of lasgun fire. These disruptions gave Fargo the merest glimpse into the brutality of the conflict around him, to the left a mutant ripping out the eyes of one of Fargo's men with a set of garishly oversized fangs encrusted with plaque and gore, to the right a pair of guardsmen pinned a be-tentacled Daemon to the ground whilst a third pumped shell after shell into its face with a shotgun. It was more a melee than a battle; each Guardsmen simply striking out at anything within range that wasn't wearing the same uniform. Footing was becoming treacherous, the ground slick with blood and mud, but Fargo fought to maintain his footing, knowing that if he fell he would never be able to get back up again.

A pair of guardsmen rushing past Fargo to the front were suddenly bowled out of the way by a gore encrusted mass of warped power armor, their bodies landing with a wet crunch several meters away. In an instant, Fargo levelled his bolt pistol at the Marine and fired. The bolt smashed into the Chaos Marines helmet with enough force to gut a man, yet the Marine still clipped the sergeant with a glancing right hook strong enough to send the Sergeant flying.

"Come on, you _Traitorous Whoreson_!" Fargo spat defiantly as he pulled himself to his feet, losing more than a few teeth and a fair amount of blood, "The Imperium over comes! and We are the Imperium!"

The towering marine tore its helmet free with one hand, and crushed the skull of an unfortunate Guardsman with the other, revealing a serpentine face full of black, rotting fangs. Then he charged, boots crushing the fallen and cratering the mud beneath.

"I will bury you, worm of the false Imperium!"

But before the Marine could attack, the thunderous roar of a revving engine drowned out the sounds of battle, shaking the earth with its power. Guardsmen and cultist alike reeled in confusion and fear

A flash passed before Fargo's eyes, and he looked round to see his opponent falling to the ground, a bloody stump where his head had been. Half a second later there was an ear-splitting crack, followed by more as some unseen force struck down the forces of Chaos with unnerving accuracy. A bellowing horn filled the air as a shadow fell upon the battlefield, and he looked up to see a wall of metal towering overhead, studded with more weapons emplacements than he could count. The smaller once tracked back and forth, picking off the forces of Chaos with consummate ease, never once hitting a Guardsman. The ground shook again, and a second wall of death appeared to its right and side, a third to its left. Now Fargo could make out more detail; each was a massive tracked war machine, with at least two massive turrets poking out over the top.

"By the Emperor..." Fargo fell to his knees, unable to comprehend.

* * *

><p>"I'm not sure I should be doing this." Hoban sat somewhat hesitantly in what he had been told was the commanders couch, the heavy shock restraints holding him in place as the screen before him compressed a full 360-degree view into something a little easier for the human mind to deal with. Targeting information appeared, picking out the forces of Chaos that had been on the brink of overwhelming the Field Base. "I'm just a Corporal, and not a very good one at that."<p>

"Never the less, you are a soldiers." Archie reassured him as he picked off the last Defiler with a 30cm Hellbore that ripped it apart, "And studies have shown that a Bolo, even a Mk 33 such as myself, works much better with a human commander than without. I only wish that you were properly trained, so that we could use the neural link; it would make so many things so much easier."

"I am _REALLY_ not happy with that idea." Hoban shook his head, "That sounds like the kind of thing a Princeps spends years studding for at the Collegiate Titanicus."

"Strange; I have known commanders who likened with a Bolo after only rudimentary training." Archie sounded almost relaxed as he linked his field of fire with he other Bolo's he had awoken from their long slumber, finally pushing the remaining Chaos troops back up the ridge line, "It seems like there is much I have yet to learn about this new age."

"There!" Hoban pointed at a hazy image on the edge of the screen, "What's that?"

"Four combat walkers of unknown type or origin." Archie did his best to zoom in and clear up the image, but some unknown force prevented him form succeeding, "Detecting usual high energy readings that I can not identify."

"May the God-Emperor protect and defend us." Hoban felt his blood run cold, "Chaos Titans!"

* * *

><p>"Frak me." Fargo looked at the distant shapes growing closer and felt an icy blade stabbing at his chest. He had no idea what kind of weapons the newcomers had, but he know of no Imperial weapon on the planet capable of stopping a single Feral Titan, a Chaos-twisted abomination that had once been a loyal Warhound, let along four of them.<p>

"**PLEASE STAND CLEAR!**" A voice like mechanical thunder rumbled from high above as the six pairs or titanic treads began to churn again. At first they advanced slowly, but once they were clear of the surviving Imperial Guardsmen and Adeptus Mechanicus technicians, they rapidly accelerated until their tracks were spewing contrails of dirt as they raced across the open ground.

Fargo could now see that tracked leviathan was capped with a trio of massive turrets, and were decorated with a banks of smaller weapons emplacements. They spat fire with their long range guns at the Titans in the distance, which slammed ineffectually against the enemy void shields.

* * *

><p>"We are still too close to Imperial ground forces to deploy nuclear ordinance." Archie sounded disappointed, "Still, we are now clear to engage with our main Hellbores."<p>

"A _WHAT_?" Hoban asked.

"One of these." the Bolo responded as it locked all three of its 200cm main cannons onto the nearest Titan, a move copied by his two companions.

Originally built for use on capital ships, the plasma weapon worked by inducing nuclear fusion a sliver of deuterium, creating a seething mass of plasma barely contained by the intense electromagnetic fields lining the barrel of the great weapon. A fraction of a second prior to deuterium detonation, a laser is used to carve a path for the bolt of star hot fire behind. Then electromagnets in the barrel accelerate the mass of plasma to near light speed until it slams into its target with megatons of nuclear force. The science was lost on Hoban, who simply felt a teeth-rattling jolt, and the blinding flash of nine simultaneous Hellbore discharges. Five bolts gutted the torso of the corrupted Warhound titan. Millennial machinery melted and boiled away while daemonic flesh and parasites thrashed and screamed as the white hot kiss of plasma swept them away. A sixth bolt vaporized the lupine head of the titan, ending its crew in a single, searing moment of agony. The seventh, eighth, and ninth smashed into the reverse jointed legs, sending the mighty war machine careening into the ground as an unrecognizable heap of molten metal.

Uncaring of the loss of their brother, the three surviving Titans loped forward in homicidal glee, vox casters howling hateful and unintelligible curses at the opponent. But their targets were already moving, the Bolo splitting up but maintaining overlapping fields of fire. Plasma annihilator bolts struck Archie head on, smashing into his battle screens with atomic force. Fortunately, his battle screens bled off most of the energy, transferring it to his own weapons systems, the rest turned several of his anti-infantry weapons and secondary sensors to molten slag. He returned fire with a rippling broadside from his port 20cm and 10 cm Hellbores as he swerved violently to one side, avoiding the brunt of a hundred round hail of Vulcan mega-bolter fire that left truck sized craters in the ground where Archie had been. Each Bolo targeted one of the Titans with every weapon at their disposal, unleashing salvos of mortar and howitzer shells in a bid to overwhelm the enemies defenses.

Roaring their defiance over 700 decibel vox casters, the Feral titans responded in kind. The battlefield was momentarily illuminated by the birth of a dozen new stars as questing hell bores and plasma annihilators turned small city blocks into radioactive glass. Hundreds of cultists surging beneath the Titan went deaf as the continuous fire of secondary Hellbores and mega bolters produced a sound akin to the ripping of the fabric of space and time.

"Enough of this." Archie almost snarled as he brought himself around to face the nearest Titan head on, "This ends now!"

Accelerating to his maximum speed, he switched as much of his power as he could into his forward battle-screen, absorbing the brunt of the fire that came his way and shunting it with the battle-screens, yet parts of the hull and weapon batteries still shattered beneath the bombardment. A mere 250 meters away, the titan attempted to twist away and flee, but by then it was already too late. Thirty-two thousand tons of metal, moving at almost two-hundred kilometres and hours, struck the daemon infested war machine with enough force to snap its legs off just below the knee. It toppled backwards, sprawling on the ground even as Archie reared up and landed on top of its chest, crushing it beneath his massive treads.

Gutted and dying, the daemon machine unleashed a shock wave of psychic energy. Ripping open the barriers between real space and the Immaterium, it attempted to drag the psyche of its killer into the dark embrace of the Ruinous powers. Such an attack could have reduced battalion of Imperial Guardsmen to drolling wrecks or driven even an Astartes mad. But against the indomitable will and single minded determination of a Mk 33 Bolo it was like an arrow shattering against plate armour. Wave after wave of corrupting energy hammered against Archie's resolve, pounding against his sense of duty and attempting to drain his reserves of willpower. But try as it might, the daemon could not penetrate the defences, found no purchase or leverage it could use. It found no flame of passion to turn to its cause, only a cold, unyielding dedication to the protection of mankind.

The last two Titans attempted to flee, but were surrounded and cut down by the Bolo's. Tracing their enemies transmissions back to their landing zone, the colossal war-machines fired their long-range missiles, cleansing the area of the taint of Chaos with nuclear fire.

* * *

><p>Hoban lay back on his bunk, staring into space.<p>

He wasn't sure how long the survivors of his unit had been held in secluded quartering; every few hours the lights in the windowless barracks dimmed for a period, and food was dispensed by an automated system in one wall. The only contact any of them had with the outside world was when they were taken by a squad of faceless Inquisitorial storm troopers to be interrogated by the interrogators Adeptus Mechanicus or the Ordo Hereticus. He felt sure that they were still on the nameless world they had been sent to investigate, but evidently the battle that had taken place was enough to finally justify the garrison force so lacking before. From time to time, Hoban could even feel the thundering footsteps of the war engines of the Titanicus through the floors of the complex.

Many of the Guardsman had fallen into despair, crushed by the betrayal of the Imperium they had fought and bled for. Only the stern, unwavering, and unbowed presence of Sergeant Fargo prevented their spirits from collapsing. Hoban laughed inside, they couldn't give in now, especially before the old coot, could they?

A weight shifted to his side; bringing him back to reality as a few stray golden hairs fell across his face.

He looked down to see Guardswoman Drake, still asleep at his side. He wasn't sure if it was the attraction he had felt between them back before this had all started, or simply the stress of a shared experience, but the young woman had hardly left his side since they had been relieved and placed in seclusion. Neither of them had made any move to take the physical side of their relationship further, something that would have been somewhat impractical, given the close confines they found themselves in. Even Fargo, for all his faults, seemed content to leave them be, probably figuring that they deserved any comfort they could find while it lasted.

The metal culvert leading out of the jail house slid open with a pneumatic hiss, and a hawk eyed figure swathed in an Inquisitorial great coat walked out..

"Corporal Hoban." she looked at him, her face unreadable behind a mask of detached, clinical professionalism, "Come with me if you want to live."

Moving carefully do as not to wake Drake, Hoban pulled himself out of his bunk and made sure his uniform was as presentable as he could make it before heading across the dimly lit room. Sergeant Fargo nodded slightly to him as he passed. That simple gesture of camaraderie and concern, where there was once only annoyance and contempt, struck a chord inside Hoban. Returning the gesture, Hoban marched solemnly to his impending execution, regretting all the times he had made trouble for the old Sergeant.

Well, all but one of them, he chuckled.

The Inquisitor led him through a number of identical passageways that twisted and turned, no doubt in a bid to disorientate him and dissuade escape, and it was working. By the time they reached their final destination, Hoban had no idea where they were. His guide stood to one side and ushered him through the hatch, remaining outside as it closed. The room was empty besides a simple table and a pair of standard issue folding chairs, the kind that Hoban had used countless times since joining the Imperial Guard.

In one chair there was a tall, slender man dressed in a simple black suit. He wore no rank or other insignia, but carried himself with the dignity of one who was used to being in command, and Hoban found himself coming to attention automatically. The stranger looked ancient, his skin, sickly pale and drawn in a way that made his face look very much like the skull beneath it. One side of his face covered in a massive cybernetic eyepiece, which puckered and pulled on the parched flesh around it.

"Good evening, Corporal. I am Inquisitor Lynch" the man spoke with casual disinterest as he gestured to the other chair, "Please, take a seat."

"Sir." Hoban nodded hesitantly, fully aware that the Inquisitor before him could make him disappear with just a word.

"You have quite the interesting file." Lynch indicated to a hard-copy folder on the table, "Over two dozen commendations for bravery in combat, and almost ten times that number of demerits for insubordination outside of it. Yet you are a survivor; that much is clear." He intoned, folding his hands beneath his chin, "As you have no doubt worked out by now, there is more to this world than we first thought. The Adeptus Mechanicus first became interested in it after retrieving transcripts of a conversation between the God-Emperor himself and the Fabricator General of Mars concerning the Dark Age of Technology. They spoke at length about a series of ancient and powerful war machines, long thought lost, that had protected and defended humanity for thousands of years. Both the Emperor and the Fabricator General regretted the fact that they were unable to recreate these machines, as they would have been an invaluable asset to the Great Crusade."

"Bolo." Hoban muttered before realizing that he had spoken aloud.

The Inquisitor raised his eyebrow quizzically, then continued.

"Yes, the then almost mythical Bolo's of the lost Dinochrome Brigade." Lynch nodded with a thin, reptilian smile, "This world was once known as Santa Cruz, and was home to a large Brigade base at a time of war between humanity and a now extinct Xeno race, even the name of which is lost to us. It was apparently attacked and turned it from a once lush agri-world into what it is now. But the Xenos missed several key installations. Most importantly, they missed the bunker complex you were sent to investigate." He leant back in his chair, "In truth, we did not expect to find much here; maybe a text that would help us rediscover some lost knowledge, or an example of some lost technology. We never expected to find operational Bolo units slumbering, their Machine Spirit still intact." He looked around, as if to make sure that they were truly alone, "Or even an intact Standard Template Construct that will, once returned to Mars, allow us to build more."

"By the God-Emperor..." Hoban almost fell out of his chair, imagining what an army of machines like Archie might be capable of in the service of the Imperium.

"Exactly." Lynch dropped the file onto the table, "Under other circumstances, you and I would have never met. But these are extraordinary times, and if we are to fulfill the Emperors dream of a reborn Dinochrome Brigade, then certain exception will have to be made. It seems that the Bolo unit you first encountered, the one that calls itself 'Archie', has taken quite the liking to you, and has requested that you be assigned as his permanent commander. You'd hardly be my first choice, but who am I to argue with a God Machine?" He slammed his hand down on the desk, "You're a Hero of the Imperium; how many Guardsman, save Knight Commander Pask, can say that they personally took down four Heretic Titans in open combat? The High Lords are very happy with how that will play with the masses when we unveil the new _Legio Dinochrome_ on Terra next year. I hear that the Ecclesiarch himself has agreed to conduct the wedding."

"Wedding?" Hoban asked, latching on to the one part that made any sense to him; unwilling to even try and comprehend the incomprehensible politics of Terra.

"Yes, _your_ wedding." Lynch grinned, looking and sounding genuinely amused, "Your close relationship with Guardswoman Drake has not gone unnoticed, and it has been decided that it'll add a little something extra to the story; help boost morale and recruitment. After all, what's more romantic then two soldiers, from across the galaxy showing that Love Can Bloom on the battlefield? I'm sure that will go over wonderfully with the masses."

"But..." Hoban blinked, "I don't even know if I love her."

"Love? What's love got to do with marriage?" Lynch actually laughed, a terrifying creaking sound that shook Hoban to his very core, "You signed on to serve the Emperor and the Imperium, my boy, in any way we see fit. And surely garrisoning Holy Terra, with an attractive young wife at your side, if far better than some of the... _alternatives_?"

"Y-yes sir." Hoban slumped in his chair, completely confused and overwhelmed.

"Oh, there's always a choice, Luka." The old man surprised him by using his first name, "You can choose to serve the Emperor and the Imperium, along with all your friends back in the other room. Or you can choose not to."

"I see." Hoban nodded slowly, recognizing a threat when he heard one, "Only in death does duty end, my lord"

"Hmmm, I see that you are familiar with the _Scriptorus Munificantus_ " Lynch stated with something approaching respect "I have a feeling that this is the start of a most rewarding relationship."

**The End**

Because we needed a decent, in-depth 40k/Bolo story


	2. Requirements Of The Service Part 1

_With thanks to Alamo for beta reading, Noxturna for fact-checking_

_and 100thlurker for making sure it's suitably grim-dark_

**Requirements Of The Service**

**(Part 1)**

Burning piles of broken metal and flesh littered the landscape, casting long, strangely shaped shadows through the smoke and fog. The screams of the dying were drowned out by the crackle of heavy weapons fire and the sporadic dull thump of high explosives. War had turned the previously tranquil planet of Alfheim from a lush agri-world into a hellish landscape of bombed out farms and burning forests. It still wasn't clear just what the Ork war-band had been looking for when they first landed, but they seemed to be content with simply causing as much damage as they could while they were there. The local militia had put up a spirited but ultimately doomed defence, the overwhelming numbers of the invaders driving them steadily back until only a handful of hastily fortified strongholds had remained.

The desperate plea for help that had been sent out on the few ships that had survived the initial onslaught brought a small relief force of the Imperial Guard to bolster the planet's failing defence. Alfheim was too important to the survival of the sub-sector to lose, its fertile fields and oceans helping to feed more industrialised worlds. The defenders knew that all they had to do was hold out until help came. If anything, the Orks had been almost jubilant at the increased resistance, throwing themselves into the fray with greater vigour, hitting even harder than before. In time, the remaining towns became little more then heaps of rubble in an increasingly burnt and blackened landscape, the survivors huddled amid the ruins, praying to their Emperor for salvation. The solders on the firing line had little time for such distractions, and were often forced to go without food or sleep for days at a time as the Orks probed their defences for weaknesses. The ever present glare of discharging lasguns and the rattle of autocannons becoming little more than background to a vicious hand-to-hand brawl that left nothing but death in its wake.

Despite all this, Guardsmen Ivan Volkovich felt at home. A member of the near extinct race of Abhumans known as Squats (_Homo sapiens rotundus_), he had a hatred of the Orks that bordered on the pathological, and that had led him from the small enclave where he had been born to serve the Imperium as a soldier. He had faced some resentment from normal humans, but his people were still an officially sanctioned sub-species, and as such it was not only his right but his duty to serve the Emperor. He had tested well at mechanical skills, and would normally have been attached to the motor-pool, keeping the regiment's vehicles running. But a squad of Gretchins armed with satchel charges had turned the motor-pool into yet another heap of rubble two days before, and Volkovich had been reassigned to manning one of the secondary bunkers. Salvaging what weapons and supplies he could find, he had recovered several tanks of promethium, as well as some irrigation equipment from the basement of a bombed out agricultural wholesaler. Working around the clock, he had assembled a little something to greet the Orks with the next time they attacked his part of the line.

He got his chance soon enough, as a trio of Nobz moved forward under the cover of darkness, leading a mixed group of Shoota and Slugga Boyz in an apparent probing raid. Pulling a pair of welding goggles down over his eyes, Volkovich swung the end of his impromptu weapon around until it was aimed directly at the approaching mob of Orks and held a pocket igniter in front of its wide muzzle.

The night lit up with the very fires of hell as a torrent of well mixed promethium and other scavenged chemicals leaped forth from the small bunker, catching the Orks completely off-guard. One moment they had been approaching what they suspected was a lightly defended section of the Imperial line, and the next a wall of smoke and flame was rushing toward them. They had no time to react as the maelstrom engulfed them, incinerating their bodies and detonating the ammunition and explosives they'd been carrying. Pieces of burning Ork and charred leather rained down as explosions alerted those members of the garrison that had missed the fire-storm of the attack. A Stormboy who'd been bringing up the rear of the party was sent streaking high up into the night sky on a pillar of iridescent flame as the recovered Manticore missile he'd been carrying ignited, giving him a superb view of the battlefield for the few seconds before the warhead detonated and he returned to the ground as a fine red mist.

"_**YES!**_" Volkovich punched the air triumphantly as his now empty scratch-built flamer started to slowly melt beside him. He pulled off his goggles, the area around his eyes the only part of his face not covered in a thick layer of soot, while his beard and eyebrows were conspicuous by their absence. "Hoo dyer leik a little tyest of Imperial firepower, ya yellow-bellied Sassenach!"

* * *

><p>The small drone hovered over the landscape at treetop height, its powerful counter-grav generators allowing it to skim along at high speeds with minimal sound or heat signature. Its sensors scanned from one end of the electromagnetic spectrum to the others, took and analysed air samples, checked for radiation and even scanned the earth to identify the myriad of vehicles and feet that had crossed this hellish battleground by the tracks they made.<p>

The drones self-contained AI gave no thought to the big picture, content to merely carry out its orders and report back. There was a momentary pause while one of its sensors picked up a non-human life form, and it prepared the 1mm laser that served as its only means of active defence, but it turned out to be a domestic cat that had somehow survived the battle, and was seeking a quiet place to rest, or perhaps something to eat.

The drone made a note of the animal's location, and continued on.

The broken plateau finally gave way to a steep ridge line overlooking a wide valley bracked on the far side by a line of ragged, snow capped mountains. A fast flowing river had until recently flowed through the centre, but it had been dammed somewhere upstream, leaving a parched ribbon of mud and silt behind. Straddled across this quagmire was a mid-sized town, surrounded by the thin line of improvised Imperial Guard earthworks, and a much thicker sprawl of an Ork war-camp. The only building still recognisable as such was the temple on the main square, it's harder construction providing it greater resilience to the ravages of war. Both sides had lost most of their heavy armaments in the weeks of constant fighting, and the battle had turned into a war of attrition, as the Orks edge in numbers allowed them to slowly grind away at the defenders. Yet a tattered Imperial Aquila still flew over the bombed out shell that had been once been a vibrant town, and the drone dutifully reported this fact back to its master.

In the trench-lines below, the few remaining Guardsmen were stood by, awaiting the next Ork attack, knowing full well that with their depleted numbers, this could very well be the one that finally broke through. There was no thought of surrender; Orks didn't take prisoners, at least not for long, and even if they did, such an idea was unthinkable. They would sooner die where they stood before prostating to the enemy. Each solder carefully checked their weapons, loading power packs and magazines, the crews of the few remaining heavy guns laying out the last of their ammunition in preparation of a final burst of fire before they were down to bayonets. Before them, the Orks waited impatiently for the order to attack, some resorting to fighting their comrades to sate their thirst for battle.

A handful heard a thin whistling noise fill the air, and looked up just in time to see the first 40cm high-explosive mortar rounds begin their final descent. They landed with a dull thump amid the front ranks of the Ork infantry, and the survivors looked around, trying to work out where it had come from. A few cocked their ears to a low rumbling behind their lines, like distant thunderstorms, followed by a sound not unlike an approaching fright train as a salvo of terminally guided 240cm howitzer shells came smashing into the ground, followed almost immediately by a second barrage of mortar rounds, this time a mix of incendiary and white-phosphorus shells.

The artillery barrage continued, saturating the Ork positions with mixed munitions that sowed fear and confusion. Even the bravest, most war-crazed Ork preferred an enemy they could see, and the attack was breaking down their minimal unit cohesion. Some chose to attack the Imperial Guard lines on the grounds that they were at least an enemy they could see, but their charge was too small, too spread out, and the defenders cut them to ribbons in a murderous crossfire. The few survivors could only look around in surprise as the ground itself began to shudder, a low rumbling filling the air between the explosions that came more and more frequent. Yet not a single shot struck a human , suddenly, a massive black shape appeared over the ridge line, and a torrent of rail-slugs, flechettes and laser bolts ripped into the Orks.

"_This is Unit ARC-953-201 Of The Line._" A confident new voice announced over every Imperial vox frequency, "_Help is at hand._"

* * *

><p>Several miles away, hidden under layers of camouflage netting and heat dampening sheets, a lone Ork scout watched the tide of battle turn with a broad, buck-tooth grin. His orders had been to sit and wait, missing out on all the fun, and report back if and when Imperial re-enforcements arrived. He wasn't sure if this was exactly what the Warboss had in mind, but it was certainly unusual.<p>

"How, Boss." He reported in over the wire land-line that the Mekboyz had cobbled together for the mission. "Target spotted."

* * *

><p>Captain Luka Hoban, 1st Company, 1st Battalion of the Legio Dinochrome sat atop a pile of broken bricks, his cloak pulled tight around his shoulders to ward off the pre-dawn chill. From his vantage point atop the ruins of the town's temple he had a clear view of the pair of <em>Atlas<em> recovery vehicles busy clearing away debris while a number of drop-ships brought in emergency supplies. His friend and constant companion, the Bolo unit _Archie_, sat off to one side, his massive reactor providing power for a hastily assembled field station and the rebuilt Imperial Guards forward operations base. Looking up, he could see a few stars that remained, defiant against the oncoming dawn: a cloud of UAV's launched by _Archie_ to keep an eye out for Ork counter-attacks, feeding real-time data to the Bolo and the network of sentry guns they had hastily set up to take over from the exhausted Imperial Guards. The town was as safe as they could make it, the survivors receiving aid, but there were still Orks elsewhere on the planet, battling against the freshly arrived Imperial Guards relief force. Hoban knew that _Archie_ wanted to be back in the thick of the fighting, but all he could think of was time.

It had been almost six years since he had first met _Archie_, on the distant, uninhabited world once known as Santa Cruz. Six years since he had literally stumbled upon a treasure worthy of the Emperor himself. Since he had been there when the last surviving Bolo's of the Dinochrome Brigade had returned to save his unit in their hour of greatest need. Since he had been transformed from a mere Corporal with a discipline problem into a Hero of the Imperium.

And it had been five years since he had last seen his wife, on now equally distant Holy Terra.

The mission had been intended as a show of force on a number of key Imperial Worlds, with each of the three remaining Bolo's and their new commanders given a different sector to cover. But as was common with such plans, it soon fell by the wayside. Yes, there had been parades, and speeches, and cheering crowds calling out his name. But then there had been an uprising of Chaos Cultists, followed by the first of a number of Ork attacks. Each call for help took them further and further away from home. Hoban had long forgotten the name of the Hive World where he had been born, grew up and ultimately been forced to join the Imperial Guard to avoid prison. Since then he had gone wherever his regiment had taken him, but Terra had held the promise of a a true home. Yet that did not seem to be his fate, and 'home' now referred to a cramped cabin just behind _Archie's _command deck.

A dispatch from Terra had informed him that he had a son, born months after he had left, but had not seen it important enough to include an image. Hoban had long wondered if the child looked like him, or maybe some other Imperial Officer who had caught his wife's eye. He didn't blame her if they had; their marriage was the brain child of the bureaucracy that truly ruled the Imperium, a fabrication intended to enthral the masses and put a human face on the new armies of self-aware Bolo's that were planned. Hoban had spent enough time with _Archie_ to realise that such pretences were unnecessary, given a Bolo's single minded dedication to the protection of the human race. But his was not to judge the ways of the High Lords; he was merely required to play his part as the dutiful young Guardsman risen from the ranks to the lofty position as an officer.

If playing those games kept a woman he cared about, if not truly loved, safe, then that was his burden to bare.

"Brooding again?" A sharp, authoritarian voice enquired, "You'll go grey long before your time, if you carry on like that."

"I should be so lucky as to grow that old." Hoban turned to face his own personal spectre and the banquet, his direct superior and near enough as mean no never-mind benefactor, Inquisitor Lynch, "The Ork are dead, the day is ours. What does it matter how I chose to spend my down-time as long as it is not heretical?"

"An idle mind is open to corruption." Lynch chuckled, a sound that reminded Hoban of grinding gears, "I have come to collect you; we have need of you back at the field base."

"That's a twelve hour drive, even at full road-speed." Hoban looked at the sky, where the dark blue of the twilight was starting to give way to the golden hues of dawn, "You could have sent a vox message rather than come out all this way yourself."

"I have come for _you_." The Inquisitor stressed, "_Archie_ is to remain in the field until you return."

"My Lord?" The captain stood, confused and slightly ill at ease at the prospect of being parted from his command, even for a few hours, "There are still Orks in the hills..."

"I am sure that _Archie_ can take care of them by himself." Lynch turned and started back towards the half ruined staircase that led back down to the main temple itself, "We have unexpected guests: an Eldar emissary that has expressed an interest in meeting you, going as far as to mention you by name. Normally this would worry me, but he has been sent by Craftworld Dolthe, and they are officially classed as 'allies'." the Inquisitor explained as he confidently made his way across the rubble strewn landscape.

"And he asked for _me_? By _name_?" Hoban hurried to keep up, "What could they want with _me_?"

"Luka my boy, you're the man who rediscovered the last remnant of the Dinochrome Brigade and helped fulfil the God Emperors wish that they would once again serve as humanities sword and shield." Lynch looked back over his shoulder, "The Eldar are effectively immortal and have long memories; there is every possibility that this emissary knows their kind of old and wants to see them again to see if they are a threat to his people."

"Are they?" Hoban asked somewhat fatalistically.

"To the best of my knowledge, the Imperium has no plans to attack Dolthe at this time." Lynch shrugged somewhat nonchalantly, "They are a race in decline, their Gold Age long past, and they would be wise to graciously bow out and let humanity take its place while they have the chance." He stopped head in his tracks, surprising Hoban to the point where he almost walked into the taller man's back, "Dolthe I believe we can trust not to stab us in the back, at least not without what they would consider a very good reason." He admitted as he started on again, crossing the floor of the main temple with long strides that ate up the distance, "The other powers want us dead or subjugated, where as the Eldar are driven by survival. They share our views on the Ruinous Powers and the Tyranid, have no love for the Orks or the Tau, and have a near pathological hatred of, well, other dangers that lurk in the darkness for the unwary to stumble upon. If we can convince even one small enclave that the future of this Galaxy is best served under human dominion, then we can maybe start to turn the tide. And if we can secure at least part of our border without having to spend the lives of our troops, who could be better use elsewhere, then all the better."

They stepped outside into what had been the towns main square, which had been mostly cleared of debris, at least enough to allow a _Valkyrie_ bearing the mark of the Inquisition to land, its rear cargo ramp open.

"Come; I've made sure that there is a hot shower and new dress uniform waiting for you." Lynch gestured towards it with a cruel smile, "And I know how much you do love your dress uniform."

* * *

><p>Orks are not, country to Imperial propaganda, totally mindless brutes. True, the have an insatiable love of fighting and battle, but in their own way they can be just as intelligent and cunning as any human. This was true of Warboss Iron-Head, the Cybork behind the invasion of Alfheim. He had herd the stories of the humans new weapon, and like any true Ork, wanted to see it for himself, to test his own strength and skill against it. But he hadn't been foolish or bloodthirsty enough to simply challenge it head on, instead, he had laid a planet-sized trap while his Mekboyz worked on creating their own ultimate war machine. Iron-Head had worked his way up the ranks of the Ork hierarchy through grim determination, a little luck, and more than one axe carefully placed in the back of his superiors. During that time he's lost both legs and his right arm in battle, but the Painboyz had rebuilt him, stronger, faster and more brutal then ever before. But he had lost none of his cunning and intelligence, and he was known for having a disproportionately high number of Mekboyz in his war-band, resulting in his war machines having a higher level of maintenance then most, increasing their effectiveness on the battlefield. Some had gone as far as to accuse him of un-Orkish behaviour, only to have their heads pulped by his massive steel fist.<p>

He had heard the stories of the new human weapon, and set his mind to either capturing or destroying one, no matter the cost. With that in mind he had directed his WAAAGH! to attacked a number of human worlds in the hopes that he could draw one out. He had raised worlds and slaughtered millions with little thought to what he was doing beyond his ultimate goal. The bloodshed had been glorious, and he had two new Beakiez helmets to decorate the hull of his new mount, taken from the broken bodies of Oomans foolish enough to challenge him to single combat. His Boyz followed him without question, trusting in him to lead them to the best fighting, not caring what his true intentions were. And now, finally, on this Mork forsaken mudball, he had his prize in sight.

"She iz ready, mein Führer!" Dok Mangler, his somewhat crazed (even by Ork standards) Big Mek, reported with a sharp salute and a click of his heals.

"Excellent!" Iron-Head walked over to the gantry that looked down upon the makeshift foundry built into the cargo bay of one of his transports at the monstrosity of metal and weapons below. The Gretchins were adding the last few dabs of red paint and grinding down every edge till it was razor sharp, "Soon the Oomans shall tremble at the name of Iron-Head!"

**To Be Continued...**


	3. Requirements Of The Service Part 2

_Thanks to Vehrec for stepping in as my other two Beta's are AWOL_

**Requirements Of The Service**

**(Part 2)**

Hoban hated his dress uniform with such an intensity that he was honestly surprised that it didn't spontaneously bust into flames whenever he put it on. In the field he was normally able to get away with a khaki jumpsuit or something a little closer to his old Imperial Guard dress uniform, often a greatcoat decorated with nothing more than his name, rank and the insignia of the Legio Dinochrome.

In contrast, his dress uniform was a stiff, itchy, and altogether too garish explosion of crimson and cream, with enough gold braid and buttons to outfit a regiment. It had been designed by a man heralded as the best fashion designer of the age, back on Holy Terra, but Hoban was sure that the man had simply viewed it as a nice, fat government contract and thrown something together out of whatever was laying around at the time. It was apparently also the fashion to have the collar just a little tighter than it should be, forcing the wearer to keep their chin up or risk strangulation, and they had insisted on adding a ceremonial sword to the ensemble. Hoban had ditched the useless original that came with the uniform and had it replaced with a proper blade possessing a keen, razor sharp edge, on the grounds that it was a dangerous universe, and it never hurt to have a weapon to hand, no matter what the circumstances.

He just had to suppress the desire to slit his own wrist with it when facing tedious social functions.

He had seen the Eldar emissary, but it had been a short and strictly formal meeting before Lynch and the other power-brokers had moved back in. Hoban wasn't upset with that; it had allowed him to drift out to the edge of the formal reception, making what small-talk he had to, before he was able to make his way outside by way of the bar. He snagged a bottle of something on the way out, intent on spending the rest of the evening in blissful intoxication, but Lynch once again appeared out of nowhere and confiscated the liquor with a warning that Hoban was to be on his best behavior. With the Inquisitor's words still ringing in his ears, he'd sought out a quiet corner where he could at least be alone in the cool night air, and settled down to try and catch up on his sleep.

He was just starting to doze off when some sixth sense told him he was being watched, and he opened his eyes to find an Eldar in a dark, almost pitch black armour observing him from a short distance. One hand instinctively went for the hilt of his sword, but the xeno seemed to be totally unarmed, and while its face was unreadable behind their helmet, the stance seemed more inquisitive then threatening.

"Can I help you?" Hoban asked as he stood with as much dignity as he could muster, buttoning his jacket up.

"Your story is known amongst many of my people." The Eldar's voice was muffled by the helmet, but it retained a hint of the almost musical tone common to may of their race, "I wanted to see if you really were a giant, who's eyes burned with the very flames of war."

"I am afraid you have me mistaken for a Primarch, if that is how you see me." Hoban laughed, "No, I am afraid I am just a man. And not an imposing example of one at that."

"I find it best to look beyond the exterior. It is what lays inside that is truly important." The mysterious stranger tilted it's head to the side. "And from what I have seen of you, there is much more to you then there first seems. Most humans I met would revel in the honour and glory that had been placed upon you, but you are humble to the point of self belittlement. There is strength there..."

Any further thoughts on the matter were cut off by the personal vox unit attached to Hoban's belt sounding the emergency alarm. He immediately forget the conversation as he grabbed it and hit the receive button.

"_I'm sorry to disturb you evening, Luka, but my drones have picked up a large Ork forcing approaching my position from the mountains._" _Archie_, ever calm and chipper, announced as if it was an everyday event, "_They have proven to be annoyingly effective at shooting down my drones, but based on what they did report back and seismic readings, I estimate at least six _Gargants. _There is something moving up behind them, but the readings are to vague to make any definitive predictions as to their disposition._"

"Hell and damnation!" Hoban felt the colour drain from his face, "What other Imperial unit are in your area?"

"_A few light armour units, but not enough to have any significant effect on the outcome._" The Bolo sounded almost apologetic, "_They would be better utilized defending the town from any raiding parties while I moved to engage the main force by myself._"

"That's a lot of Orks!" Hoban started back towards the mess hall, intent on finding Lynch, "Maybe you should call the ships in orbit for support?"

"_I regret to inform you that they have already been engaged by a number of Ork ships that were hiding deeper in the system asteroid belt. _" _Archie_ replied, deadpan, "_A most unusual tactic, for Orks._"

"I'm on my way back now." Hoban stopped dead in his tracks, "Draw them away from the town and buy time."

"_I will do what I can._" _Archie_ sounded resolute, "_Death or glory, my friend._"

"Death or glory." Hoban closed the vox link before looking around, muttering to himself, "I need to get back there, fast."

* * *

><p><em>I feel my mind expand exponentially as I enter battle-reflex mode, all my systems spinning up to full capacity. My drones feed me targeting solutions on the advancing Ork horde, and I immediately respond by firing a full load of conventional missiles against them. I see the people around me look up sudden fear, realizing that I would not have unleashed such a torrent of fire without good reason, and they quickly run for what cover there is.<em>

_All but one, that is._

_I zoom in with one of my hull mounted cameras while simultaneously feeding my missiles in-flight corrections and plotting optimal trajectories for my howitzers and mortars. One Imperial Guardsmen, a rather short specimen that my files identify as Ivan Volkovich, is hurrying to disconnect the heavy power cables running from one of my maintenance hatches to the nearby field hospital. I could just as easily snap the hatch shut, severing the cables and saving time, but something about the grim determination on his face stops me, and I give him the few seconds he needs to finish his task. In all my many years of combat, I have never failed but to be impressed by the indomitable will and determination of my creators, in all their many forms._

_But that is a thought for another time, as my missiles enter the terminal lock on their targets. My rules of engagement prohibit the use of nuclear weapons without the presence of my commander, or authorization from theatre command. As I am limited to conventional high explosives, I direct the missiles at the smaller Ork units, their Deff Dread's, bikes and buggies to stop them from flanking my line of advance and striking at the humans I am protecting. Each missile is carefully guided into its target for maximum effectiveness, secondary explosions and flying shrapnel taking out even more targets. Orks die by the hundreds, but the rest hardly seem to notice. I follow on with a second volley of missiles, this time with a salvo from my howitzers timed for simultaneous impact on the target area. This assault is somewhat less effective, as the Orks have started to speared out, limiting splash damage, but I manage to take out three Battlewagons and a number of lesser units._

_Return fire starts to head my way, but it is easily handled by my infinite repeaters and smaller point-defence clusters. Still, it is a reminder that I should move away from the settlement, less it becomes collateral damage. I must move, but Guardsmen Volkovich is still struggling to disconnect the last of the power cables. Three is no time, and as a soldier, he knows that sometimes the necessities of war come first. I give him a moments warning before I slam the hatch shut, cutting the cable but trapping him inside my hull as I move off. He utters a string of oaths in a dialect I am unfamiliar with, but the meaning is clear. I offer my sincerest apologies, and indicate the way to one of my interior chambers where he will be better protected and be able to find a restraint harness._

_The Orks get the range of my UAV's and start shooting them down, limiting the accuracy of my long range fire. Not that it matters much; I am already moving towards the ridge line that separates the pass they are advancing down from the main valley, and it will not be long before they are within line of sight and I can engage them with my main armament. In the meantime, I target my forward Hellbore at a rocky outcropping high up on one of the mountains overhanging their advance and fire. Tons of rock are vaporized by the explosion, but an avalanche sends thousands more crushing down on top of the Orks, taking out at least one of their_ Gargants _and damaging two more. I direct my fire onto the damaged unit, intent on taking out as much of their heavy fire-power as I can before battle is truly joined._

_My shots strike true, but just before my last drone is shot down, it relays an image of just what it is that is following them, and suddenly the outcome of the battle isn't as sure as I'd hoped._

* * *

><p>"<em>Thirty seconds!<em>" The _Valkyrie's_ pilot announced over the intercom as he put the transport into a tight, diving turn, hugging the terrain at near treetop hight to dodge the amount of fire the Orks were putting into the air.

"This is the dumbest thing I've ever done." Hoban squeezed his eyes shut and fought to keep down his last couple of meals as the _Valkyrie_ lost height rapidly, the pilot throwing it about the air like some crazed bumblebee. While he had intended to get back to _Archie_ as quickly as possible, even the best pilot in the Imperium would be hard pressed and land long enough for Hoban to safely disembark. It was Inquisitor Lynch who had, with the agreement of the Eldar emissary, come up with the near suicidal plan he now found himself taking part in. Hoban opened his eyes a fraction and looked up at the back of the mysterious, black-clad Eldar warrior he had encountered at the reception. The Emissary had identified them as a member of his bodyguard, and a pilot of some renown amongst their people. Given the fact that their skill and the speed of the jet-bike the two of them were sat on would soon be the only thing standing between Hoban an a few thousand angry Orks, he hoped that it was no hyperbole.

There was a moment of weightlessness as the pilot pulled the _Valkyrie's_ nose up sharply, cutting their forward momentum to almost zero, then the rear hatch dropped open. What what could only have been a cry of joy, the mysterious Eldar kicked free the clamps holding their ride in place and let gravity drag it out through the hatch onto the shell-pocked grassland beyond. Hoban just had time to catch his breath before he was almost pulled out of his seat by a sudden burst of acceleration as his companion sent them racing towards the nearby battlefield. The sounds of war filled the air, and even through his clenched eyes, Hoban could see the after-effect of a Hellbore blast as _Archie_ battled the accursed Orks. So low to the ground, the normally smooth ride of the jet-bike was reduced to a bone-shaking assault on the body, to the point where Hoban felt sure he was about to cough up his own kidneys. They turned suddenly, jerking first left then right, dodging the sporadic fire from a lone Ork scout that had spotted their approach.

"Isn't this thing armed?" Hoban had to scream at the top of his voice to be heard, even at such a short range, "Kill that bastard already!"

"Weapons are heavy, so is armour." The Eldar responded as a bullet put a dent in the jet-bikes hull, missing their legs by a fraction of an inch, "Maybe that sword of yours might be an option?"

Reluctantly releasing his grip on the jet-bike, Hoban grasped his sword with one hand and passed it forward to the Eldar, who let out a war-cry that sounded more like an epic poem, then deftly sliced the offending Ork's head cleanly off its shoulders as they passed by so fast that it was all just a blur to Hoban. The rider twirled the blade around in their hand, then lightning fast swung it first to the left, then the right, taking out another pair of surprised Orks before hurling it at a third who had been about to fire some kind of rocket launcher at them. The blade caught them right between the eyes, all but splitting their head in two.

"Well, that was a dumb move." Hoban bitched, "Now we're completely unarmed."

"I somehow doubt that any blade, save perhaps your Emperor's flaming sword, would do us much good from now." The Eldar pointed down the valley to where _Archie_ was engaging a pair of _Gargants_ in a close-range battle to the death, "From here on, speed and agility are all we can depend on."

"And this started out as such a nice day..." Hoban muttered to himself as they streaked off towards the battle.

**To Be Continued...**


	4. Requirements Of The Service Part 3

_Thanks to Vehrec for stepping in as my other two Beta's are still AWOL_

**Requirements Of The Service**

**(Part 3)**

To an outside observer, the new Ork war machine would have looked like a squashed scrap heap that had been given the ability to move on an odd collection of tracks and wheels. But then the eye would be drawn to the two massive turrets crammed with cannons and missile launchers, to the multiple smaller weapons emplacements scattered almost haphazardly across its hull. Underneath the layers of tacked-on scrap, with its sharp edges and garish graffiti, the armour was smooth and deservedly thick, covering several power-field generators and a massive power plant to run it all. The words '_Fist of Mork_' were painted across the box with unusual care and reverence, to make sure the Oomans knew just who they were facing.

It was a _Bow-Low_, the latest addition to the Ork armoury, and deep within its monstrous hide, behind extra layers of armour, sat the command deck, like the putrid yolk of a rotten egg.

"Come on, you bags o' puss!" Iron-Head stood, surrounded by his biggest and most loyal troops, "I want dat ting dead!"

"Ja wohl, mein Führer!" Dok Mangler snapped a quick salute between pulling massive leavers that caused the low rumbling coming from the deck beneath their feet to double, "Flank speed aheads!"

Spurned on by the barbed whips of their overseers, the Gretchins in the engine room worked furiously to turn the orders from the command deck into action, despite the heat, smoke and noise. Several fell into bits of heavy machinery and were dragged into the inner workings, their bodies adding extra lubricant and giving the larger Orks something new to laugh at. Up above them, the gun-crews in the various turrets prepared their Supa-gatlers, Deth Kannons and Supa-rokkits, each crew determined to be the one that scored the killing blow on the Ooman war machine they faced. Several got over excited and started firing at random, hitting several of the warband's other vehicles, by accident or on purpose depending on your point of view.

* * *

><p><em>The large projectile weapon in the Ork vehicles front turret opened up first, a stream of massive shells impacting against my battle screens even as I bring my own weapons to bare. My opponent is eager for battle, a trait I have found universal to their race, so I advance to meet them head on, providing the smallest possible profile. Whether through a design flaw in the weapon or a poor targeting system, their aim is highly erratic, the majority of the shells fired missing wide, and those that hit doing little more than making my battle screens flare. I return the favour with a snap-shot from my forward 200cm Hellbore, hitting them with the force of a small atomic weapon, but they have their own defensive screens up, and the hit fails to do any noticeable damage.<em>

_Evidently, this fight will take a little longer than I had first hoped._

_Using the terrain to my advantage, I swing right and drop down into a 'small' gully, allowing one of my rear turrets to fire, along with my side-mounted infinite repeaters, which tear into the few remaining supporting units. Orks die by the dozen as the more lightly armoured units explode, but I concentrate on the massive armoured vehicle in the middle of the enemy formation. It mirrors my manoeuvre, and we keep pace with one another, trading broadsides like some ancient warship of Old Terra, my Hellbores and Ion Bolters attempting to ware down their defenses while their out of control projectile weapon tracks round to face me, its massive shells chewing up the landscape as it fires continuously, regardless of what it hits. Indeed, it rakes the last surviving Gargant, and an internal explosion of indeterminate origin leaves it a twisted, burning wreck._

_And still my opponent tries to close the point-blank rage, no doubt intending to try and board me. I prep my anti-personnel clusters in anticipation, and issue Guardsmen Volkovich a power carbine from one of my internal armouries, just in case. Then my sensors pick up an Eldar jet-bike approaching, broadcasting the signal from my commanders sub-dermal transceiver._

_Maybe this is the surprise Inquisitor Lynch spoke of._

* * *

><p>The jet-bike was still several kilometers out when the main body of Orks spotted them and opened fire. Rockets and bullets zipped past them, but the Eldar pilot was able to weave between them, and while many came close, none hit. Then, as they got closer, <em>Archie<em> started to actively support them by picking off the most dangerous Orks with his infinite repeaters and anti-personnel clusters.

"To the rear there's a bay that use to contain combat drones, before the Adeptus Mechanicus took them all for study" Hoban pointed to the Bolo's back quarter, "We should be able to get in through there."

"A wonderful plan, with only a single problem that I can see." The Eldar pointed at the massive Ork war machine that was engaging _Archie_, "I don't think they'd be willing to cooperate."

"Damnation!" Hoban hissed through gritted teeth, "You got a better plan?"

"Oh, I have an idea." The pilot laughed as they pulled back on the controls, lifting the jet-bike higher, "But I don't think you're going to like it."

"Oh no..." Hoban gasped, realizing what they had in mind.

"Oh yes!"

"Oh no!"

"Oh yes!"

"No!"

"Yes!"

"Oh crap!" static danced across Hoban's skin as they passed through a narrow gap in _Archie's_ battle screens, then there was the sickening sound of pseudo-plastic bending and warping out of shape as it hit something a lot harder than itself.

The Eldar pilot grabbed him and leapt clear from the remains of the jet-bike a split second before it exploded, shielding them both from the blast with the strange armour they wore. There was a sickening wet sound as they hit _Archie's_ upper deck and skidded along until they hit what was either an auxiliary sensor probe or an anti-personnel cluster, and stars exploded before Hoban's eyes as he felt his left shoulder pop out of its socket. It took him a moment to get a grip on his surroundings; the heat was unbearable, and the noise of battle struck him with a near physical force. He looked around and saw his Eldar companion laying on their side, their back to him, the helmet they had worn since the two first met broken, letting out a spray of flame-red hair. Crawling over to their side, he pulled them onto heir back with his one working arm and was shocked to discover that the Eldar warrior was a female, something he had never expected. A hatched popped open near by, interrupting Hoban's train of thought, and the snub nose of a power-carbine popped out, followed closely by a very short man in an Imperial Guard uniform.

"You the commander of this metal beast?" He asked gruffly.

"I am." Hoban nodded, wondering just what the hell was going on.

"Guardsman Volkovich, at your service, Sir." The Squat saluted, "Maybe you should get below, where it's a little safer?"

"Best idea I've heard all day." Hoban tugged at the unconscious Eldar with his good hand, "Give me a hand here."

"But sir!" Volkovich looked stunned, the muzzle of his carbine edging towards the pilot, "Xenos..."

"Is a representative of an allied power," Hoban snapped back, almost forgetting where he was, "and she damn near killed herself getting me here."

"Aye, sir." The guardsman nodded and moved to assist, knowing that at times it's best not to argue with an officer, especially when they get a truly mad glint in their eye.

With much grunting and more than a little cursing, the two of them were able to drag the Eldar to the hatch, where a sudden unexpected bump sent the three of them tumbling down into _Archie_, who quickly closed and sealed the hatch.

"_My apologies._" The Bolo sounded apologetic, "_I am afraid that one of my battle screens failed, and the Orks managed to score a hit on my starboard side. Damage is minimal._"

"I have had just about _**ENOUGH OF THIS!**_" Hoban shouted, his body running on pure adrenalin and rage, to the point where he was visibly shaking, "Volkovich, get a first aid kit and see what you can do for...her." He gestured to the Eldar, "I'm going to kill me some Orks!"

"Yes sir." The guardsman nodded as the captain limped off towards the command centre, "I wouldn't want to be on the wrong side of that man, not for the Golden Throne of Terra itself."

Hoban waited until he was through a sufficiently thick and soundproof hatch before slamming his right shoulder into the nearest bulkhead, popping it back into the joint, and emitted what could only be described as a girlish scream of pain. Whimpering slightly, but still filled with rage, he made his way to the very heart of the Bolo. There he found his command couch waiting for him, and he carefully stripped off his jacket before climbing in. The restraints snapped shut around him and the emergency survival canopy closed as the multiple display screens came on-line.

"No, I don't think that's going to be enough, Archie." He shook his head, "Activate the neural-link."

* * *

><p><em>We experience a rush as the neural-link cuts in, making Us one. Time seems to slow to a crawl as Our thoughts, Our minds, become one. The Ork was machine is still firing at Us, and IWe feel a stab of pain as they score a hit, obliterating a number of secondary sensor clusters and anti-personnel weapons. Armour that has remained untouched for millennia shatters away in flakes a meter across, littering the battlefield like snow. I/We respond with a coordinated strike against Our enemies forward turret, all three of Our Hellbores zeroing in to rob the accursed Orks of a third of their fire-power. The weapon explodes with a massive fountain of smoke, flame and debris, the charred remains of several Orks flying through the air._

_But the other two turrets respond in kind, and a fresh stab of pain strikes Us as out central turret is badly damaged. Internal disruptor fields prevent the energy pulse from spreading further, but the drive system for the turret ring is reduced to molten slag, and the power feeds for the Hellbore are severed. For all their crude aesthetics, the Orks we face are obviously no fools when it comes to weapons design or battle tactics._

_We change tack, aiming all Our available weapons at their drive train, seeking to limit their mobility. Hellbore bolts strike drive wheels and bogies shatter and melt under the onslaught, causing the Ork machine to swerve suddenly to port, throwing off their already questionable aim. Unfortunately their machine has ample raw power, its obviously oversized engines providing an massive amount of torque to each individual wheel, and it is soon able to overcome the damage._

_The outcome of the battle is far from certain._

* * *

><p>The Eldar pilot awoke to find herself looking down the barrel of a power-carbine.<p>

"The Captain seems to think he owes you one." Volkovich hissed through gritted teeth, his finger holding the trigger at the very point of firing, "But to me, you're just another Xeno, understood?"

"I am Lúthien Nénharma of the Shining Spears, assigned to Emissary Arcamenel's personal guard." The woman spoke softly, her voice like oil on silk, "I can think of at least six ways to take that weapon away from you before you can fire. Four would kill you outright, while the other two would simply cripple you." She sat up slowly, "But right now, I am under orders to assist Captain Hoban in repelling the Ork attack. And even if I wasn't, I'm hardly likely to do anything that might endanger this machine and thus get myself killed."

"Just making sure we're all on the same page." Volkovich shouldered the carbine, "How much do you know about mechanical engineering?"

"Almost nothing: when I was younger, my parents wanted me to go initally into the life of a merchant, so that formed the basis of my education. What few procedures I do remember are all dependant on Wraithbone." Nénharma shook her head, "Since I became a warrior, my training had been geared more towards breaking things apart than fixing them"

"Same general principles apply, just in reverse." Volkovich pointed to a large metal box, "You can carry the tool kit; the Orks have this nasty habit of blowing holes in this overgrown tin can." He turned and started walking off down the corridor, "And with half the servitors down, you can guess who's going to have to fix everything."

* * *

><p>Smoke and the stench of burning flesh filled the <em>Fist of Mork's<em> command deck, but if it made life even the least bit difficult for her crew, they knew better than to show it in front of their war-boss; the bulkhead was covered in the remains of the last Ork that had.

"I wants a targeting lock on dat Ooman and I wants it now!" Iron-Head roared, his cybernetic fist leaving a huge dent in the console beside him, "I'll chase him round the Domain of Storms, and round the Eye of Terror, and round perdition's flames before I gives him up!"

"We hear and obey, mein Führer!" Dok Mangler responded as he worked like a demon to bypass systems that had been damaged or destroyed by the battle. But the truth was that he still didn't fully understand what he had created; it was something that he had envisaged in his mind, and started to assemble almost in a daze. To a human it would have been an uncanny experience-to a Mekboy, it was mundane. There was also the problem that Ork technology was more a question of intent and belief then physical ability. This made it hard to operate such a massive machine, as the slightly loss in concentration on his part could render a key system inoperable.

"Dere she is! Dere she is!" Iron-Head painted at a shadow on the static filled main screen, his one good eye full of glee, "_**GIVE ME RAMMING SPEED!**_"

* * *

><p><em>The fog of war, both literal and the electronic kind, make it difficult for Us to keep track of our foe, especially when they stop firing. Even our seismic sensors are next to useless as our own movement creates too much interference. But IWe know that the Ork are out there, waiting to get a clear shot. Their new weapon is crude but effective, a clear indication that the re-emergence of the Dinochrome Brigade has not gone unnoticed. I/We expected a response, but not so soon, and not from the Orks; of all humanities enemies, they are the ones I/We anticipated would be the last to adapt. But evidently I/We were wrong, and now I/We are paying the price for underestimating them. Underestimating your enemy is to be avoided; thousands of years ago, humanity underestimated the Melconian Empire, and the long and bloody war that followed almost wiped both sides out. Information on how the war ended, and humanity was able to rebuild is sketchy at best, and the Inquisition has, politely, suggested that looking into it further should be avoided. I/We know a direct threat when we hear one, and as such I/We have left well enough alone._

_But the Orks are not the Melconians, and this is not Operation Ragnarok. Our enemy emerges from the smoke, headed strait for us at what must be their maximum speed. There is no time to manoeuvre to avoid collision, so instead I/We angle ourselves to take the blow head-on, where our armour is thickest. The difference in perception time and the ability to physically react are often disconcerting; as a human would say, it is like walking through treacle, and I/We are forced to watch as our two passengers struggle to react to the warning with give them as we veer sharply to starboard._

_I/We take the bow on the very corner of our armed prow, where the reinforced internal structuring is best equipped to absorb the force of impact. Even so, we feel every destroyed anti-personnel cluster, every blow relay and every stress fracture as if they were physical pain, a bizarre by-product of the neural link. Two of our secondary Hellbores shatter as sheets of ablative armour the size of a main battle tank are pulverised. Endurachrome warps and buckles like paper, and even the inner most layer of flint-steel is damaged, but no hull breaches are detected. Circuit breakers kick in, but even they aren't fast enough to stop the massive overload that shorts out the forward turret, __robbing my of half my remaining main armament. The hull of the Ork war machine rides up and onto my forward deck, sheering off sensors clusters and even more anti-personnel and point-defence weapons, leaving deep gouges in my armoured deck._

_Power links to my drive train shut down to prevent overheating, leaving us, temporarily at least, stranded_

* * *

><p>"What in the Emperors name was <em><strong>THAT?<strong>_" Volkovich demanded of the universe as he picked himself up off the deck. He'd barley had enough time to comprehend the collision alarm before he'd been thrown across the small room into the far bulkhead.

"I do not know." Nénharma pushed herself into a seated position and lent back against the hatch, "But it can not have been good."

"That just might be the understatement of the centenary." The NCO responded, grabbing his tools that had been scattered abut, "But I came here to fix a power coupling, and that's exactly what I intend to do." He opened a maintenance panel to examine a mess of burnt out components and severed wiring, "This doesn't look too different than a standard relay; little more advanced, maybe, but same general principle." He started to cut away chunks of wiring to expose the real damage below, "Looks like the main power artery is undamaged; the serge protectors did their job, may the Omnisaiah bless them, but the cut out is fused in the open position, and I've no way of getting it shut again without ripping it out and replacing it." He looked over to his companion, "I don't suppose you have a surge protector for a Mk33 Bolo combat unit with you?"

"Sorry," The Eldar warrior shook her head, "left it in my other armour."

"Well then, we make do and mend." Volkovich rummaged around inside the tool case until he found a large spanner, "This should just about do it."

"What exactly do you mean by 'it'?" Nénharma asked hesitantly, feeling totally out of her depth.

"I'm going to jam it in between the two ends of the power artery and spot-weld it in place." the mechanic explain as he pulled on his goggles, "And then prey that it doesn't make the entire turret blow up in our faces."

"Oh," The Eldar blinked, surprised at how okay she was with the plan, "That's good then."

* * *

><p>"Okay, next time, I drive." Iron-Head grabbed the unfortunate Ork who'd been steering the <em>Fist of Mork<em> and crushed his skull to pulp, "What's going on?"

"Engines are off-line." Mangler reported as he listened intently at a number of speaking tubes at once, "Gun-crews are attempting to realign turrets two and three manually, but they weren't exactly built for that, so it's taking time."

"_Bah!_" the war-boss sneered, "Have za rest of the crew arm up and storm zat bastard; a shiny new choppa to whoever brings me za head of its commander!"

There was a moment of silent, then a riot broke out as the rest of the command crew fought to be the first through the hatch.

"Not you." Iron-Head grabbed Mangler by the shoulder and held him in place, "Let za others go get themselves killed; we'ze gots a bigger prize ta claim."

* * *

><p><em>IWe detect the Orks climbing out of their damaged machine and onto our hull, but with so many of our weapons disabled or destroyed, there is little I/We can do about it. Fortunately, our hull is relatively intact, all exterior hatches are sealed and our internal defences are untouched. This does not mean that they are not a threat; they have shown themselves time after time to be relentless in battle, and I/We __**must**_ _refrain from underestimating them._

_That leaves the question of the massive war machine I/We are entangled with. It seems to be as damaged as I/We are, if not more so, and has made no effort to move or fire its remaining weapons. At point blank range, with our shields down, any hit would be catastrophic to say the least. I/We feel what can only be described as annoyance over the fact that the Hellbore in our disabled central turret is directly aliened with a large rent in tour opponents armour, and even a low power bolt would do immense damage to their systems at this range. Given time, our self-repair systems may be able to restore power to the turret, but time is one thing we may not have._

**To Be Continued...**


	5. Requirements Of The Service Part 4

_Thanks to Vehrec for stepping in as my other two Beta's are still AWOL_

**Requirements Of The Service**

**(Part 4)**

"There!" Volkovich took a step back and pulled up his goggles, "It ain't pretty, and it sure as hell would never pass inspection by a Tech-Priest, but if the Omnisaiah wills it, it will work." He cocked his head to the side, "Of course, He'll have to give us His undivided attention."

"My I suggest that we leave before the Captain decides to fire?" Nénharma suggested hopefully, "I for one have no great desire to be standing here if it does fail."

"You know, for a Xeno, you're not that stupid." Volkovich nodded in agreement, "It might be advisable to put a bulkhead or two between us and this compartment."

The two quickly retraced their steps until they were back out in the main walkway leading to the fortified command deck, before looking around.

"Now what?" Nénharma asked blankly.

"Now, we wait." Volkovich looked solemn, "If you believe in any higher powers, you might want to start praying to them real hard."

* * *

><p><em>POWER!<em>

_I/We do not know how, but the Hellbore in our central turret has powered back up and is responding to our commands, all be it at a reduced power level. Not wanting to looked serendipity in the face, I/We gladly send the command to fire._

* * *

><p>"Mein Führer!" Mangler screamed as he pointed at the main view screen: it showed the tell-tail pre-ignition glow in the barrel of the Hellbore pointed directly at it, "Zee enemy is preparing to fire!"<p>

"_**NOOOOOOOOOO!**_" Iron-Head screamed in rage at a universe that would place ultimate victory within his grasp, only to snatch it away again at the last moment, "_**DAT'S NOT FAIR!**_"

* * *

><p>A second sun dawned on Alfheim as <em>Archie<em> fired his one operational 200cm Hellbore at point-blank range, a bolt of plasma containing the destructive power of a six megaton thermonuclear weapon crossing the distance between the Bolo and his Ork counterpart in such a short space of time it might as well have been called instantaneous. It passed clean through the ragged gap in the outer layers of armour and travelled deep into the _Fist of Mork's_ interior before finally hitting something solid enough to cause energy release.

To an outside observer, the Bow-Low would have glowed momentarily, before great plumes of plasma sent all three of its primary turrets flying high into the air, spinning end over end before they came crashing down. Seams in the war machines armour gave way, popping open like a ripe seed pod under the hellish power within. The blast shunted _Archie_ back almost two hundred meters, plasma and fire licking his already damaged hull but finding no usable crack or chink to exploit. But it did incinerate the members of the Ork boarding party who hadn't been vaporized by the heat pulse of the original detonation.

_Archie_ skidded slightly, and ended up with one set of tracks dropping back down into the low gully he'd previously used as cover. There he sat, motionless, as his outer armour glowed red hot.

* * *

><p>Hoban groaned as reality slowly returned, dragging him from the fluffy pink embrasure of unconsciousness. He was surprised to feel soft, warm sheets surrounding him rather than the harsher embrace of Archie's command couch, and he slowly opened his eyes to discover that he was in a small, sparsely decorated room, surrounded by medical equipment of indeterminate purpose.<p>

"I am glad to see that you're back with us, Luka." Inquisitor Lynch stood beside the bed like some giant carrion eater, "I was beginning to think you were going to sleep all day."

"_Ar_... _Archie_?" Hoban croaked, his mouth parched and his tongue feeling at least two sizes too big.

"Damaged, but repairable." Lynch carefully held out a cup of water with a straw, "The Adeptus Mechanicus have brought him back here to their field base, which is here, in case you were wondering, to start work." One corner of his mouth twitched in what might have been a smile, "They seem somewhat excited about finally getting the chance to have a detailed look inside an operational Bolo. But don't worry; I've made it quite clear what will happen to them if he is returned in to us in anything less then peak condition."

"Good...that's good." Hoban rested his head against the soft pillow and closed his eyes, "There was a Guardsman, and the Eldar..."

"Guardsman Volkovich was hurt, but not as badly as you." The Inquisitor sat on a small chair, "Having gone over Archie's preliminary after-action report, and spoken to the Tech-Priests who were first on the scene, I have to say I am impressed by his ingenuity and calmness under fire. I think he would make an excellent addition to the Legion as a crew chief." He lent back and pressed his hands together, "The Eldar have already departed, taking their wounded pilot with them; Emissary Arcamenel ensure me that the injuries were minor, and that she is expected to make a full recovery."

"Anything that helps your plan." Hoban laughed sleepily, the painkillers kicking back in.

"My dear boy, everything that has happened here today has gone exactly according to my plan." An amused look came over Lynch's face, "The Orks have been routed and are fleeing, this world has been saved, and the Eldar will continue to underestimate us." he looked out the window as Hoban started to snore softly, "Exactly as planned."

* * *

><p>The blackened, twisted wreckage that had been the <em>Fist of Mork<em> littered the ground for nearly a kilometer in every direction, some parts still burning. One small fragment of armour seemed to vibrate for a moment, then slowly rose into the air and tipped over with a resounding clang. A massive cybernetic arm reached out, slowly pulling Warboss Iron-Head out of the remains of his once proud war machine. He pulled himself into a standing position, dragging Dok Mangler out behind him by the scruff of the neck with his remaining organic arm.

"Dis ain't over, Ooman!" He bellowed, shaking his fist at the sky in open defiance of fate, "I will drink ya machine's oil from ya skull if'n its Za last thing I do!"

**The End Of**

_**Requirements Of The Service**_


	6. Dark Reflections: World Of Secrets

_With thanks to Vehrec for beta reading_

**Dark Reflections  
><strong>**Part 1: World Of Secrets**

The infinite blackness of space rippled then burst open, a tear between the immaterial and real-space that allowed a small Imperial Transport to pass through before closing again. To many observers, it would have been a wondrous and terrible sight, a true miracle of technology and the Emperors Will. But to Lieutenant Pascal Duprée, it was reason to run to the head and lose his last two meals to the ships waist recycling system. Many humans found travel through the warp unsettling, but Duprée was one of the unfortunate minority that suffered from what was commonly known as Transition Sickness, an acute feeling of nausea and migraines that could incapacitate the unwary. There where drugs to help combat it, but they dulled the senses and slowed the reflexes, hardly something a soldier could allow as he reported to his new post.

Expanding the zoo on the view-screen that served as a window in his cabin to maximum, Duprée could just make out a dark, desolate world far from the systems red dwarf primary. The feeble star was little more than a scarlet point of light, casting little or no warmth this far out. As they drew closer, Duprée could see a number of heavy lift transports in high orbit, watched over by a pair of _Sword_ class Frigates of the Imperial Navy. A quick tap on the smart screen identified them as the _Furious Anger_ and _Great Vengeance_. But his eyes were instantly drawn to the massive and imposing bulk of a _Ark Mechanicus_ transport _Glory Of The Past_, of the _Adeptus Mechanicus_. While no expert on the subject, he could tell this one was different, as alongside the Cog Mechanicum it bore the sword and shield of the _Legio Dinochrome_, the same insignia that adorned the shoulders of his own new uniform.

Born on the hive-world of Arcadia, Duprée's father had been an officer in the Planetary Defence Force who'd been killed during a raid by the Dark Eldar without even knowing his wife was pregnant, while his unfortunate mother had died of complications during his birth. With no know surviving family, he had been raised to be a soldier. Routine testing had identified latent Psyker abilities within him, but they were classed as at the lowest end of the Omnicron band, only slightly above baseline. Certainly, it was nothing he had ever been able to consciously make use of, and he had been allowed to continue on to the Imperial Guard without formal sanctioning. Earning a place in an armoured regiment, he had seen action against both the Orks and the Tyranids, often surviving more by luck than skill and tactics. Then he had been offered a chance to transfer to the only recently raised _Legio Dinochrome_, and he had jumped at with both feet. Two extra years of training, including lessons on how to interact with the machine spirits, and he was ready for his final field evaluation. Only if he passed this last test would be be entrusted with the command of one of the most potent weapons the Imperium had at its disposal.

Bring his attention back to the screen, Duprée saw a blood-red _Strike Cruiser_pass out of the shadow of the far larger transport. Most often used by the Adeptus Astartes, it was a sure sign that the mighty Space Marines were in the area.

"_Orbital insertion in sixty seconds._" A voice announced over the ship-wide vox system, "_All departing passengers please report to the shuttle bay. Praise be the Emperor._"

Grabbing the kit back that held his meagre worldly possessions, Duprée left the cabin behind without a second thought.

* * *

><p>"It's like looking for an honest man in the Administratum." Sergeant Ivan Volkovich scratched his head as he looked at the holographic map that filled the centre of the room; it showed a topographical map of the nameless world below, "Why would anyone want to build a base here?"<p>

"Exactly because it's such a shit-hole, I'd say." Captain Luka Hoban chuckled at his subordinates colourful turn of phrase, "After all, would you want to come all the way out here without good reason?"

"Indeed." Part of the shadows detached themselves, and a mountain of a man clad in dark red ceramite power armour, "This world is an isolated, desolate hell, and exactly the kind of place a diligent commander would seek to place a hidden outpost."

"You honour us with your insight, my Lord." Hoban bowed his head in the presence of the towering Space Marine, "I have to confess, I would be less than confident of our chances of locating our target without the help of someone more experienced."

"As my chapter always says: '_Knowledge is power, guard it well_'." Captain Malachi of the Blood Ravens chuckled, "I can only imagine the wonders a lost Concordiat of Man depot might hold." He leaned on the rail that surrounded the holo-emitter, his keen eyes examining the hologram, "No, this is a good place to hide a base; the ionic interference in the atmosphere, and the high quantity of magnetic ore in the ground make it almost impossible to detect anything from orbit."

"And that isn't accounting for how well hidden this system was in the first place." A second Space Marine, this one clad in ornate pale blue armour, stepped into the light, "If I wanted to hide a forward supply and repair base, this is exactly the kind of system I would look for."

"I don't believe you've met my second-in-command, Librarian Ishmael." Malachi nodded towards the newcomer, "It was his study of the ancient documents that led to this expedition."

"Your servant, sir." Hoban bowed again, knowing that for all the ranks and honours that had been bestowed upon him, he was still less then even the most humble of the Astartes, "I just wish the Tech-Priests where as forthcoming with their own knowledge, both of this world and the treasures it is said to hold."

"Whatever secrets there are, they have lain in wait for 35,000 years, give or take a millennia or two." Ishmael smiled as he contemplated just what lost treasures the base might hold, "I think they can keep for another couple of days while we send down search teams."

* * *

><p><em>I monitor the conversation between my commander, crew-chief and the two Space Marines with some interest. I am still coming to terms with all the changes that have overtaken the galaxy while I sat in standby mode, but I am happy to be of use to my creators once again. I have never been troubled by any existentialist questions as to the nature of my existence or my purpose of being: I am a Mk. 33 Bolo Combat Unit, constructed at the Bolo Prime facility on Luna in the year 3742 by the old calendar, and I have served in over two hundred campaigns across several sectors of space. During that time I have faced the Melconian, the Deng, a single skirmish with the Malach, and then most recently the forces of Chaos and the Orks. During my military career I have suffered battle damage that would have destroyed a lesser machine, including one incident during the Melconian War where my battle hull was so badly damaged that my psychotronic brain was removed and placed in a fresh body. My most recent battle, against the Orks on the planet Alfheim resulted in major damage to my middle turret, and it has been replaced with a mounting for a Defence Laser, a contemporary weapon that has greatly increased my long range fire-power, especially in anti-orbital roles. I have also had a number of my secondary battle screen projectors replaced with void shields to provide extra protection in combat.<em>

I am eager to test these new systems in combat, but given the nature of our current mission, this is unlikely.

There is a faint pressure on my outer most firewall, indication that the Adeptus Mechanicus are once again attempting to probe my inner defences. It is a minor annoyance, as they have stepped up their attempts since my incapacitation on Alfheim, and I have filed official grievances with Legion Headquarters over what a human would call an invasion of privacy. As the Imperiums armours engines, they already have full access to my schematics and technical database, but they have developed an obsession over monitoring my under normal operational situations. Where we back at a field base, this would be of little consequence, but once deployed I automatically shut down the external data-links they are attempting to use to avoid any possible incursion by hostile parties.

Apparently their reverence for machine-life doesn't cover poking us with sticks to try and get our attention, and I look forward to the chance to converse with an Imperial Titan on the matter.

* * *

><p>Duprée stepped down from the shuttles embarkation ramp onto the deck of the <em>Glory Of The Past<em>. The massive transport was far larger and grander than any ship had had ever seen up close, and he found the scale somewhat daunting. All around he could see hooded Menials and macabre Servitors going about their duty, all under the watchful eyes of the Tech-Priests. None seemed to pay him the slightest bit of notice, until a Servo-skull dropped down from the shadow fill upper reaches of the hanger deck and bobbed up and down before him.

"_Duprée, Pascal Louis. Lieutenant 1st Class. 4493-5682-3228-5157. Legio Dinochrome._" Its harsh, electronic voice recited, more a statement of fact than a question, "_You will follow me._"

The shocked Lieutenant barley had time to grab his back before the tiny drone took off at a fast walking pace, leading him down one of the smaller service passageways. He had to run to catch up, then fell in step behind his apparent escort, his head darting from side to side as he took in his strange new environment. The ship was maintained at a high level, its decks and bulkheads spotless, tended to by what appeared to be a small army of Servitors and other automated drones that he could see running maintenance and making minor repairs from time to time. Each work party was overseen by a Tech-Priest who read long, droning prays from a thick book bearing the Cog Mechanicum that blessed and sealed the work, protecting it from the Ruinous Powers.

"_Here are your quarters._" the Servo-skull announced as it stopped outside a nondescript hatch, "_You will be sent for when Captain Hoban wants you._"

"Thank..." Duprée automatically went to thank the drone, but it had already departed.

Opening the hatch, he found a suit of small but well appointed cabin with a bunk, desk, wardrobe and a private head off to one side. It had already been stocked with basic toiletries and fresh uniforms in his size hung ready for use. A quick test showed that the work station built into the desk also served as a communications node and entertainment unit, although the library he'd been able to access was mainly filled with engineering texts and instructional vids obviously aimed at the ships regular crew rather than her current passengers.

Hanging his jacket on the back of the door, Duprée lay down on the bunk with his hands behind his head and wondered just what he had gotten himself into.

* * *

><p>The transport that had born the young Lieutenant turned and departed back into the warp, her crew never once realising that a deadly predator had been following in her wake. Painted as black as the eternal abyss, and with all her systems operating on minimal power, the <em>Idolator<em> class Raider _Cruel Deceiver_ watched the small Imperial Task Force with interest. Their original intent had been to track the transport to its final destination and attack without warning or mercy, but that had all changed when they found themselves in the presence of one of the rare and mysterious _Ark Mechanicus_, and word had quickly been sent to their masters while they did their best to remain undetected.

Thus they hung like the Sword of Damocles over the unsuspecting Imperials, just waiting to fall.

**To Be Continued...**


	7. Dark Reflections: Dead World

**Dark Reflections**

**Part 2: Dead World**

"I don't care what your manual says; _Archie_ says it's wrong so it's wrong!" Volkovich hung by a harness suspended from a movable gantry, inspecting one of _Archie's_ starboard road wheels, his accent starting to show through as it had a tendency to do when he was agitated, "Take it off and start again, and this time do it right!"

Hoban watched the scene unfold from a catwalk high above: in the six months since he had first met his Crew Chief on Alfheim, he had grown use to the Squats little outbursts, and learned to take them in his stride. While they were not exactly friends, they had certainly come to an understanding that allowed them to work well together.

At first they had been told that the damage _Archie_ had received in battle with the Ork raiders would require returning to Mars for repair, something Hoban had looked forward too, as it would have given him a chance to see his wife, and the son he had never held. But then the _Glory_ had arrived with a full repair crew and spare parts, and they had been told there had been a change of plans. This came at the cost of an even longer delay before he'd see his family, and he'd gone so far as to ask that they be allowed to travel to one of the worlds or bases the _Glory_ was scheduled to call at, but his request had been turned down flat, with a note saying that it was better for all concerned that they stay on Terra where they could be 'looked after'. The threat was clear; do anything to seriously upset his superiors, and his family would pay the price. It wasn't the first time Inquisitor Lynch had made such a threat, indeed he seemed to consider it part of everyday life, but it still cut like a knife.

"Captain Hoban, sir?" A new voice brought him back to the present, "Lieutenant Pascal Duprée, reporting as ordered."

Hoban took a moment to look the young officer over; he was maybe a year or two younger, but taller at nearly two meters. His frame was best described as wiry, to the point of being lanky, with short, close cropped dishwater blond hair and a thin moustache that was all but invisible against his pale skin. He looked every bit the model young officer, straight out of a recruiting poster, but his slate grey eyes had the hard edge of someone who'd actually seen combat, seen their friends ripped apart by the enemies of man, and lived to tell the tale. His uniform was freshly pressed and immaculately clean, but that meant nothing in such a new and rapidly expanding unit.

"I'm Hoban." the Bolo commander returned the other man's salute, then offered his hand, "So, you're the one who drew the short straw?"

"Sir?" Duprée asked, confused.

"Don't worry, it's nothing you did wrong. It's just that I know how the other officers in the Legion see me: I'm the jumped-up ranker who had the luck to literally fall into a command when there are hundreds if not thousands of experienced Princeps better trained and just waiting for a chance like this." Hoban lent back against the railing, "Normally either Smalls or Hackenbacker would be handling your final assessment; they've done the rest, but you've come to us through the Imperial Guard rather than the Collegia Titanica, and knowing those two they'd probably consider it beneath them to deal with you. So instead you get _Archie_ and me." He nodded down towards the Bolo, "And he will be writing half your evaluation; we need to know how you get on with a Bolo before we think of entrusting you with one. Because you don't command a Bolo in the same way you command a regular tank; you need to be able to work with them, and that often means listening to their advice and trusting their judgment."

"I...think I understand, sir." Duprée nodded slowly.

"Don't worry; it's not that bad." Hoban laughed, "There are only two new Bolo's ready for deployment right now, the first that have been build for thousands of years. And unlike Titans, that have a full command crew to hold them back, Bolo's only really need one person to give them orders; they can figure out the rest on their own. So we need to make sure that anyone who'd given command of a Bolo is up to the job." He turned around and looked at _Archie_, "I've read your file; you wouldn't have gotten this far unless they thought you had what it took. Now we just need to see how you handle an operational deployment. I'd say that an archaeological deployment should be easy, but that's what they said about Santa Cruz..."

* * *

><p>In the hellish void that was the warp, forces dark and calculating moved silently as shadows. Their true drives and ambitions were totally alien to that of man, but that was not to say that they were totally beyond comprehension. Indeed, in their own twisted, macabre way, they were as intelligent and gunning as any human. It was by their design that the <em>Murder<em> class Cruiser _Violent Fate_, commanded by the Skulltakers war-band, picked up the transmission from the _Cruel Deceiver_ and immediately set out to investigate.

* * *

><p>"We think we've found something." The imposing bulk of Captain Malachi loomed over Hoban as he visually inspected the last of the repairs the Tech-Priests had carried out on <em>Archie<em>, "There is a magnetic anomaly in the foothills of a chain of mountains in the southern hemisphere; too regular to be natural, and in an area perfect for defensive fighting."

"Sounds hopeful." Hoban nodded, still feeling ill at ease around the Astartes, "Any chance we can deploy drones to get a better look?"

"I am afraid not; a storm front is moving into the area, and while the atmosphere is laughably thin, it is enough be on concern." the Space Marine shook his head, "No, we will have to go down our selves and look for any further clues. Maybe your Machine-Spirit here will be able to find something."

"_I will do my best._" _Archie_ promised over one of his external speakers, "_I have some Concordiat recognition codes, but we have no way of know if they would be accepted by the bases automated system, even if it is still operational after all this time._"

"You're still operational, aren't you?" Hoban asked with a chuckle, "Inform Duprée and Volkovich that it's time to mount up." He nodded towards Malachi, "With your permission, my Lord."

"You may consider it given." Malachi smiled, "I'll see you on the ground."

Setting off at a slow jog, Hoban quickly covered the short distance to the nearest access hatch and climbed up into _Archie's_ armoured hull even as the Tech-Priests and their assistance cleared away their tools and disconnected the power feeds and data-links. Hoban felt oddly at home as he made his way along the short passageway that lead to the command deck, thick bulkheads closing behind him, the faint hum of internal disruptor fields coming on line indicating that everything was at last back up to full operational status. Every so often he passed a purity seal or some other indication that the _Adeptus Mechanicus_ has passed that way, each indicating a component that had been damaged or destroyed fighting the Orks. While each battle scar could be seen as a failure, Hoban instead chose to take comfort in the extra protection the charms and wards offered against the ruinous powers.

The command deck itself had undergone a few minor changes, with a dedicated engineering station built into the forward bulkhead with a crash harness adapted to take Volkovich, as well as a number of jump-seats for other possible crew members or passengers. The crew chief was already in place, running the last few diagnostics, but Duprée stood beside the armoured cowling of the central command couch itself, seemingly unsure of what to do with himself.

"Grab a seat and strap in." Hoban warned as he took his own seat and let the crash harness close around him, "This can get a little bumpy."

"Aye, an if me Nanna had wheels, she'd be a wagon." Volkovich chuckled, "All squared away and ready for drop."

"I don't understand, sir." Duprée looked even more confused as he started to fasten the straps on his chair, "I didn't see a hatch large enough for the Bolo to pass through; how are we to get to the landing craft."

"Archie doesn't need a landing craft." Hoban smiled as his hand hovered over a flashing red button.

With that he slammed down on the controls, and the massive hatch that made up most of the repair bays deck snapped open in less than a second. Still pulled on by the Grav plating even as the panels folded away, _Archie_ dropped like a stone, falling towards the planet below as the ship thrust away. Duprée let out a surprised yelp as they suddenly went zero-g, almost floating out of his seat before _Archie_ slowly brought his counter-grav generators on line, providing some semblance of normality while also smoothing out the ride.

"_Angle of approach is good; all systems are operating within acceptable parameters._" The Bolo announced as he activated the display screen around the cabin, showing a mixture of external camera feeds, data relayed from the ships in orbit and a projection of their landing zone on a topographical map, "_The Blood Ravens_ Thunderhawk _is holding relative position 25km off our port side._"

"The Mk. 33 has internal counter-grav generators: they're were intended to allow rabid relocation on a strategic level, but they also allow for independent orbital assaults." Hoban explained calmly, "It's important to know the full capabilities and limitations of your Bolo, and vice-versa ; it's more of a partnership than a regular command, and you need to know you can trust each other."

"I'll keep that in mind, sir." Duprée nodded slowly, still feeling more than a little green around the gills as the entire room started to shake.

"_Atmospheric interface; please remain seated._" _Archie_ informed them as he adjusted their angle of decent slightly, his battle screens redundantly protecting them from the inferno beyond his hull, "_Would you like some music?_"

"Yes, that would be nice." Hoban sat at his ease, totally relaxed, "Something from your historical archive; something I've not heard before."

"_I have just the thing._"Archie chuckled as the music started, "_A little something from the late 2nd millennia._"

"_Love is a burning thing, and it makes a fiery ring. Bound by wild desire, I fell into a ring of fire._" A long dead voice started to sing in a long dead language, "_I fell into a burning ring of fire. I went down, down, down and the flames went higher. And it burns, burns, burns, the ring of fire. The ring of fire..._"

Planet-fall itself was almost an anticlimax; with his counter-grav generators, _Archie_ was able to touch down on a relatively flat stretch of exposed rock and he immediately deployed a number of sensor drones to scout out the nearby area.

"_Gravity confirmed at one tenth Terran standard, atmosphere negligible, but there are traces of nitrogen, methane and carbon monoxide._" He filled his screens with various charts and graphs, "_Recommend extreme caution when venturing outside._"

"So, the armoured suits it is." Hoban replied glumly, "By the Emperor, I hate those things."

"_On the bright side, you won't need them until we find the base, and only then if it seems to be intact._" Archie sounded amused at his commanders discomfort, "_Request permission to deploy additional drones for long range scanning._"

"Sounds like a plan." Hoban relaxed into his seat, "It's not like we've got anything better to do."

**To Be Continued...**


	8. Dark Reflections:Nor Fastened Portal Bar

**Part 3: ...Nor Fastened Portal Bar**

Captain Malachi looked round as _Archie_fired a single missile, then went back to overseeing the deployment of his squad.

"Ishmael, take Octavius and scout out the valley to our south." He ordered, pointing to a map spread out on the front of one of the _Land Speeders_ that had been disembarked from the _Thunderhawk_, "Constantine, Praxis, you will take these hills here to the west: they are the highest ground in the area, and should give you a good view of the surrounding area. Gaheris and I will advanced to this ridge line here." He pointed to a long, low cliff face a few kilometres to the north, "There is evidence of an extensive cave network in that area. The rest of you will remain here with the Bolo; Apothecary Ignatius has command until we get back."

"The Emperor wills it." Ishmael nodded, then looked at the rest of the squad, "Well, what are you all standing around like a bunch of Ultramarines for? The Captain gave you an order!" the younger Marines quickly scatted to their assigned tasks, and the Librarian chuckled, "Initiates; full of talk of honour and glory, but still piss themselves if you shout at them!"

"Where we not all the same, once?" Ignatius asked with dry humour.

"This is their first mission as full Battle-Brothers." Malachi nodded in agreement with his two trusted subordinates, "They still have much to learn about the true life of a Space Marine."

High above their heads, in the upper reaches of what passed for an atmosphere, the Battleview missile _Archie_ had fired reached its target altitude and exploded with a dull thump, scattering thousands of sensor drones. Each was less than a centimetre across, yet contained its own a counter-grav coil, as well as infra-red, visual, sonic and gravimetric sensors that immediately started to send back information to the waiting Bolo far below.

* * *

><p>"Anything I need know about?" Hoban walked thought the hatch linking his private cabin and the main control room, his eyes still heavy with sleep, a mug of steaming caf in one hand.<p>

"Only that we've been down here the better part of two days and we've still not found anything." Volkovich muttered as he sat at his station, the screens before him covered in maps and charts, "Captain Malachi forgot to mention that his 'magnetic anomaly' covered a few thousand square kilometres of terrain better suited to hell, and that because of the storm and background magnetic field we'd have to check every square meter of it visually."

"_We have covered almost two thirds of the total search area._" _Archie_ announced, "_No evidence of any artificial structures or markings._"

"Well, at least I've not had to suit up and go outside." Hoban commented as he sat down, placing his mug in the cup-holder built into the arm of his command couch, "I don't care what anyone says; they smell funny."

The Class 2(A) Hazardous Environment Suits, standard issue for all Concordiat armoured units, had been sitting, perfectly preserved, in one of _Archie's_equipment lockers when he had been reactivated. Based on the civilian issue skin-suit used to explore inhospitable environments, it had additional armour plating, extended life support and an enhanced communications suite. This made it almost twice as heavy as the armoured original, so a powered exoskeleton had been added to allow the wearer to move about normally. For all intents and purposes, it was light power armor by a modern standard. Like all Legio Dinochrome officers, Hoban had been trained to use the suits, but he found them uncomfortable and restrictive, something he had been very vocal about.

"_I assure you, Luka, that the suits have been fully reconditioned and sanitised._" _Archie_ did his best to sound reassuring, but there was no way to hide the Bolo's amusement, "_It's all in your head._"

"That's hardly reassuring..." Volkovich snorted, earning a sharp look from his commander.

"I have to agree with the Captain." Duprée looked around from his own workstation, "I found the suits...uncomfortable, in a way I find hard to explain."

"See!" Hoban gestured towards the other officer, "It's not just..."

"_I think we have something._" _Archie_ cut in as a new image filled his screens; it showed what looked like a pair of massive, armoured doors built into a hillside "_Librarian Ishmael just sent this back from the sector Bravo Nineteen._"

"At last!" Hoban rubbed his hands with glee, all thoughts of the environment suits banished from his mind, "Set course for his location, and inform the _Glory_; they're going to want to know about this."

"_Coming about._" _Archie_ confirmed as he put his port drive train into reverse and swung around sharply, "_I've __already__ directed my probes to send out a Brigade recognition code in case there are any operational systems. No response as of yet._"

* * *

><p>Prowling through the endless madness that was the Warp, the <em>Violent Fate<em> manoeuvred itself into the same relative coordinates as the _Cruel Deceiver_, allowing the two ships to communicate without the risk of being detected. It was obvious that the Imperials were looking for something on the planet below, and considered it important enough to deploy an _Ark Mechanicus_, as well as one of their new war engines. The Ruinous Powers were more than a little interested in the ancient machine and its brethren after their first encounter, so locating one so far from any support was a boon.

A plan of attack was finalised, and the _Cruel Deceiver_ slowly broke orbit and made it way to the shadow of a nearby gas giant before re-entering the Warp and heading off for re-enforcements, while the _Violent Fate_ crept into position to execute a crash transition to real-space as close to the planet as was considered safe, even by the standards of her ship-master.

* * *

><p>The rest of the Space Marines had already arrived by the time <em>Archie<em> came to a stop a hundred meters from the doorway, powerful spotlights mounted up on his hull illuminating the area. A hatch opened and two of the Bolo's spider-like maintenance and repair drones emerged, quickly making their way over the the thickly armoured door and examining it in greater detail. It was truly massive, obviously designed to allow something on the scale of a Bolo to enter, its surface sandblasted and dulled by the millennia that had passed since it was last used. Part way across one side was a smaller door, built on a more human scale, evidently for occasions when something smaller needed to pass through. A string of curses filled the open vox channel as Hoban stepped down from _Archie's_crew hatch, finding it difficult to walk in the low gravity, despite the best efforts of the systems built into his environment suit. It raised his height to almost two meters, but even then he was still overshadowed by the Space Marines who observed him with some interest and mirth as he slowly made his way over to them.

"Have you located the controls?" He asked, hopeful that he'd be able to climb back inside the Bolo's armoured hull and remove the accursed suit.

"_Yes, but they are non-functional._" _Archie_ reported, one of the spider-bots highlighting a smooth area beside the smaller doorway, "_I can try hooking up an external power source; they may be enough to at least let me run a diagnostic._"

Hoban turned to look up at Malachi, who stood beside him, observing the multi-limbed drones at work.

"It's either that or try and blow the thing open, risking damage to whatever is on the inside." The Astartes nodded in agreement, "Run your tests, machine-spirit and, Emperor willing, we will see what lies within."

There was a dull thud as the _Thunderhawk_ landed nearby, bring with it heavy equipment from the ships in orbit, as well as a Tech-Priest and his work-party, eager to see what treasure awaited them. They seemed content to watch as another spider-bot emerged from _Archie_, dragging behind it a long power cable with a 'universal' adaptor on the end. While small, the drones were amazingly strong and agile, and under the direct control of _Archie_, capable of performing complex tasks quickly and efficiently. Hoban was content to simply observe from a distance, locking the lower half of his armour in place so he could relax as much as was possible in the infernal contraption. Duprée joined him, complaining about his own suit, but it was all part of a soldiers lot to grip about something when nothing was happening.

"_I have a test signal._" _Archie_ announced after half an hour, "_Opening communications..._" There was a momentary pause, far longer than was necessary, but one of the first thing a Bolo's learned was that humans weren't capable of thinking as fast as they could, "_I've been shut out from the main network by some sort of security program. It's not just an electronic lockout; the physical pathways have been severed._"

"That seems a tad excessive." Hoban blinked, "But then again, they probably designed it to deal with threats on your level."

"_I still have access to the locking mechanism; it's an electromagnetic bolt, and I can run power to it remotely._" The Bolo continued, "_But the door itself is unresponsive. I do not know if this is due to component failure or part of the security cut-out._"

"Then we shall deal with it the old fashioned way." Malachi cocked his head to one side, "Octavius, Tor, open that door."

The two young marines jumped down from their Land Speeder, each grabbing a massive pry-bar from the equipment rack, then quickly made their way to the door. _Archie_initiated the power transfer to open the bolt, then back the spider-bots away to give them room to work. It took them a moment to locate the almost invisible seem, but soon enough they had the end of one of the pry-bars in place and pushed on it as hard as they could. The atmosphere was too thin to carry any noise even the short distance to the observers, but Hoban could imagine the creaking of ancient hinges as the massively reinforced blast door slowly started to move. It was only open a few millimetres before the other marine stepped in with the second bar, leaning against it with all his might to move it another few millimetres.

"_Bah_, kids today." Ishmael muttered, "Come on Ignatius; let's show them how it's really done."

The Apothecary nodded, and the two veterans took over at the door, working together with practised ease quickly leaver the hatch open enough to slide one of the bars through. They then pushed on the end together, and the door slowly opened with a shudder, a thin layer of dust falling down upon them.

"Much better." Ishmael shook the dust from his gauntlets with satisfaction at a job well done as he turned to face the younger marines, "A squad succeeds or fails as a unit. You already know this, but it can never cease to be repeated."

"Thus endeth the lesson for today." Ignatius nodded as he stepped aside to allow one of the spider-bots to shine a light inside.

"_I'm picking up faint energy traces emanating from inside._" _Archie_ reported as his drones continued their examination of the door controls from the inside, "_They are consistent with a Concordiat power-core starting up from standby._"

"Well then, let's see what we've awoken." Malachi looked around, "Praxis, Bors; stay with the Tech-Priests and see about getting the main door open. The rest of the squad will continue inside." He turned to face Hoban, "We may have need of your experience, should we come across any further, hindrance."

"I figured as much." The Bolo commander nodded as another maintenance robot pulled up next to him, holding equipment _Archie_had suggested he might need, as well as a small arsenal of weapons.

"I don't think you'll be needing those." Malachi chuckled.

"I'll tell you what; I'll leave my weapons behind if you leave yours." Hoban offered as he drew a power-rifle, checked its charge, then slung it over his shoulder into the holster built into the back of the suit, followed by a pistol that attached to his right hip by a pair of small put powerful magnets.

"Spoken like a true warrior." Malachi let out a deep, booming laugh and slapped the smaller man on the back with enough force to send him tumbling to the ground, if he hadn't been wearing his own armour, "You would have made a good Space Marine."

"You've obvious never read my service record." Hoban replied with an sly grin, "Gear up, Mr Duprée; it's time to move on to the practical part of your evaluation."

**To Be Continued...**


	9. Dark Reflections: Raining Blood

**Dark Reflections  
><strong>**Part 4: Raining Blood**

_I watch, with so small sence of trepidation, as my commander enters the base._

_Like all Bolo's, I am naturally protective of humans on both a collective and individual level, but is also true that we more often than not grow fond of our closest partner. We accept that our duty takes us into the very heart of battle, where death is ever present and survival is not always guaranteed, and it takes a special kind of person to be willing to share that risk with us. Luka may not have been given much choice in the matter, but there have been times when he could have allowed me to enter the fray alone while he remained safely behind the lines, yet he has never once taken that option. Of that I am most grateful and proud. But to be so close, yet unable to fulfill my primary function of safeguarding human life, is unsettling to say the least. It is often said that a Bolo knows no fear, but this is not entirely true: we do not fear battle, or even the risk of our own destruction, but we are aware that there is always the chance we may fail our creators. Against this we take comfort in the knowledge that, while a Bolo may be disabled or destroyed, we have never been defeated or conquered._

_Still, the Concordiat base offers its own, unique, dangers: aside from the normal active and passive defenses, there is the risk of encountering areas weakened structurally over the millennia since it was built, and there is no way for me to protect him from a cave in or other natural disaster. My main mission at this time is to ensure that the team working on opening the main entrance is safe from any dormant defensive systems that we may have triggered. With this in mind I deploy a pair of specialist drones equipped with high definition ground-penetrating radar to survey the surrounding area and map out any potential threats and dangers._

* * *

><p>With Ywain and Gaheris on point, the scout team made their way through the doorway and into the dark tunnel beyond. While the area outside had been lit by powerful lanterns, the passageway was as dark as the bottom of a mine shaft, the thin shaft of illumination offered by the open doorway only seeming to add extra depth and texture to the shadows beyond. They quickly activated the light amplification systems built into their helmets, but even then, there was little to work with as they slowly made their way forward. Despite their jovial banter outside, the Marines were completely focused on the mission, communicating by hand signals as they checked every shadow for possible danger. Hoban and Duprée kept towards the middle of the squad, one either side of Apothecary Ignatius. While a highly trained combat medic, he was also a veteran of many battles, having taken many more lives then he had saved in the service of the Emperor. He was also a wall of armour and muscle ready stand between the two Legion officers and any potential dangers they might encounter.<p>

Gaheris stopped dead in his tracks, one arm raised with a clenched fist to indicate that the others should remain where they were. They quickly followed his instructions, the Marines fanning out to form a protective cordon around the centre of the group. Malachi edged forward, his Bolter Pistol held out at the ready while his free hand moved to the hilt of his chainsword, ready to draw and activate the weapon at the first hint of trouble.

"Up ahead, just before the next intersection: the colouration in the ceiling is different." Gaheris whispered, indicating an almost invisible area ahead, high up above their heads, never taking his aim away from the target, "Could be a maintenance hatch, could be a concealed weapon; impossible to tell at this distance."

Malachi nodded before making his way back to the others.

"We may have encountered our first obstacle." He spoke in hushed tones, "Any ideas?"

"We're still in the main tunnel, so if there are any defensive, they'll be powerful enough to challenge Concordiat era battle armour at the very least." Hoban pulled out a dataslate he'd taken from _Archie_, and pulled up a couple of files, "Most likely a heavy plasma cannon; short ranged, but very deadly. The only problem is, we have no way of know if it even works, let alone if it has power."

"An interesting quandary." inside his helmet, Ishmael frowned, "The only way to know for sure is to go for a little walk." He looked at his captain, "With your permission, sir."

"Permission granted." Malachi nodded.

"You always have lacked any sense of self-preservation." Ignatius put a hand on his friends back, "May the Emperor stand between you and harm, in all the empty places where you must walk."

"Truer words were never spoken." Ishmael pulled his plasma rifle tight against his shoulder, and started to walk forward. 

* * *

><p>Space ripped open like an angry wound made of bees as the <em>Violent Fate<em> exited the warp far closer to the planet than was normally considered safe, even by the forces of Chaos. The ship bucked and shuddered like a wild animal as it dived towards the surface, trailing flame and shattered void shields in its wake like a demonic meteorite. It plunged, bow first, into what passed from an atmosphere, its armour turning from the red-brown of dried blood to scorched black as her helmsman struggled to maintain an even keel. To an outside observer it would have looked like parts of the ship were breaking off and falling away, tracing their own fiery trails across the sky, and in effect they were. Only rather then being the result of atmospheric friction, each indicated the path of a _Dreadclaw_ drop-pod, four in total, each carrying a full squad of twelve traitorous Chaos Marines.

The pods plummeted to the surface, while the _Violent Fate_ struggled to avoid following them. Still ridding on the crest of the energy wave generated by its unorthodox transition from the Warp, it arched across the ice-covered surface, leaving a wide trail of melted ice in its wake, which quickly refroze into a otherworldly, twisted mass. It passed between a pair of mountains, missing their ragged peeks by scant meters, before finding itself over the same plain that its Imperial foes had landed on. Snapping immediately into Battle Reflex Mode, _Archie_ managed to fire all three of his primary weapons as the ship passed over the distant horizon. Even with his mind racing far faster than any human could ever comprehend, he was still effectively shooting from the hip, and both of his Hellbore bolts missed. But the recently installed Defense Laser struck the cruiser a glancing blow amidships, leaving a deep rent in her lower armour and opening several compartments to near vacuum.

The _Violent Fate_ passed into cover before a second shot could be fired, leaving the stunned Imperial forces on the ground to recover from being so close to the weapons when they fired. The ship itself started to regain height, her almost ballistic course taking her directly towards the _Glory Of The Past_ and her consorts. The cruiser's bow-mounted Lance batteries opened fire, catching two of the orbiting heavy transports completely off-guard. The first simply exploded from a direct hit to its main reactor, while the other took the blast on its forward starboard quarter, slicing through its relatively thin armour as if it wasn't there, before exiting out its port side amidships. Her back broken, the helpless cargo-ship started to drift out of control, her surviving crew making for the lifeboats. Of all the Imperial ships, only the Blood Ravens' Strike Cruiser _Retribution_ was able to respond in kind before the _Violent Fate_ was out of range, scoring hits with its bombardment cannons but doing little additional damage. Seeing their hated enemy apparently fleeing battle before it was fully joined, the _Retribution_ was quick to give chase, supported by the _Great Vengeance_ and _Furious Anger_, while the _Glory_ remained on-station to watch over the remaining transports and the planet below. A solitary _Thunderhawk_ Transporter carrying a Land Raider dropped away from the _Retribution_ and headed towards the planet below.

* * *

><p>Hoban found himself holding his breath as Ishmael ventured forth, slowly advancing on the suspected turret, knowing full well that the weapon it housed would, if fully operational, be more than enough to incinerate the Marine where he stood. But if the Librarian felt any fear, he kept it well hidden as he continued to advance at a slow but steady pace, passing Gaheris and continuing on into unknown territory. Several of the others had their weapons trained on the target, but there was little they could hope to do at such a range.<p>

Ishmael stopped just before the intersection and looked up, the electronics built into his helmet cutting through the gloom and giving him a clear view of the deactivated turret. It remained inert, seemingly unaware of his presence, even when he waved the end of his plasma rifle from side to side in a semi-threatening way. Deeming it safe, he raised an arm and gestured the rest of the group to join him at the crossroads.

"We have no way of knowing where any of these passageways lead." Malachi glanced down the dark tunnels that branched off to either side, "We have no way of knowing how big this complex is, so our best bet is to continue strait on until we find something. The Tech-Priests can fill it with Servo-skulls later on to map it fully; I just want to make sure it's safe."

"We should look for a security checkpoint or other manned position." Hoban suggested, doing his best to sound confident, "Somewhere with a data-port that I can access with my suits on-board systems. If we can convince this place's machine-spirit that we are the rightful heirs of the Concordiat, then it might make the job that much easier."

"I'd settle for some transport, so we don't have to keep walking." Ishmael chuckled, the tense atmosphere of just a few moments before dissipating quickly.

"We'll see what the Emperor deems fit to provide." Malachi gestured further down the main passage way, "Let's get moving."

* * *

><p>Less than a hundred kilometres from the doorway that led into the base, the Skulltakers' assault squads moved towards a small protrusion on an otherwise flat expanse of rock. Blasting it open with explosives, they unearthed a heat sink atop a cooling tower. Moving with skill and precision many would think impossible for servants of Khorne, they quickly cleared away the wreckage and secured repelling lines to make their way down into the base.<p>

Their commander, guided by a vision, led them on through the darkness.

**To Be Continued...**


	10. DR: A Voice In The Wilderness

_With thanks to shubzilla, who's taken over as Beta_

**Dark Reflections  
><strong>**Part 5: A Voice In The Wilderness**

In his two and a half centuries, Sergeant Menelaus had seen things that most Imperial citizens would consider impossible, but he was still slightly awed at the sheer size of _Archie_ when he first stood before the Bolo and looked upon it with his own eyes. He'd read all the mission briefings and looked at the accompanying images, but none of them had done justice to the scale and imposing nature of such a massive war machine. Somehow, knowing that it was controlled by a Machine Spirit with a genius level IQ, with a complete understanding of wars fought with everything from stone axes to anti-mater warheads, dating back to a time when humanity was a few fragile, isolated pockets of civilisation spread out across the surface of Holy Terra, made it all the more intimidating in person.

Especially when it insisted on deferring to his command.

"_My standing order make it clear: in the absence of my Commander, I am to place myself at the disposal of the highest ranking Imperial Officer available._" _Archie_ explained, "_If there is no officer, a senior NCO is acceptable. Until you arrived, that put Sergeant Volkovich in command._" There was a pause, "_He is_ very _happy that you are here._"

Menelaus looked around; his own Hades Squad was made up of combat experienced troops intended to act as back-up for greener recruits of Aegis Squad in case they ran into enemy forces. But with Captain Malachi out of communications range, there was little more that they could do besides set up a defensive perimeter in case anyone attacked the entrance to the base.

"I'm tempted to try and order the Tech-Priest back up to the _Glory_, but the Adeptus Mechanicus are a law unto themselves at the best of times." He looked up into the sky, "I don't know what those warp-spawned bastards are up to, but it has to be more than a quick fly-by to take a shot at a couple of transports. If they haven't already landed, then they will do soon. Exactly how far out can you see?"

"_My on-board sensors are limited only by the horizon, but my drones can cover a much larger area._" The Bolo managed to avoid sounding smug, merely stating the facts, "_Unfortunately, the ships in orbit are no longer able to act as relays, so I have had to re-task several to take their place, cutting the area I can cover._"

"A good look at a small area is better than a patchy look at a larger area: if you see anything that shouldn't be there, shoot first and ask questions later." Menelaus nodded, then looked at the massive doorway, "We don't have time to do this by the book; we'll cut the bolts and use the _Land Raider_ to pull the doors open if we have to, but I want to be able to set up a defensive position inside that entrance."

"_I will have my repair drones start work now._" There was a pause, "_Should we try to get word to the others?_"

"I'd like to, but we don't know the layout of the base or what route they might have taken once inside." The Sergeant shook his head, "I'd like to warn them, but we just don't have the men to spare. But don't worry about your commander." He looked up at the Bolo, "I've known Captain Malachi a long time: he can handle a few traitors."

* * *

><p>"Okay, that's... odd." Hoban stopped walking suddenly, almost getting knocked over by Ishmael coming up behind him.<p>

"Define 'odd'?" Malachi asked.

"Well, if I didn't know better, I'd say that someone or something is trying to communicate with us." the Bolo commander looked at the text scrawling across his suits HUD, "Unfortunately, we don't have the required protocols to complete the digital handshake."

"Do you even understand what you just said?" Ignatius asked, dryly.

"Not really, but that's what _Archie_ said might happen." Hoban plugged his dataslate into the arm of his suit, "He wrote a translation algorithm, which should let us at least explain who we are and what we're doing here."

"And if it doesn't?" Malachi inquired, fingers tensing on the grips of his chainsword and bolter.

"Things might get a little interesting." Hoban typed in a quick string of commands, "I think I've managed to get what... whatever it is, is saying translated into Low Gothic."

"Why not High Gothic?" Octavius asked.

"Because I can just about write my own name in High Gothic, and I don't think any of us want me making any mistakes." Hoban continued, unparsed, "Okay, it looks like the outpost's Machine Spirit is aware of us, but after such a long slumber, it is having trouble waking up. It's recognising _Archie's_ I.D. code, but not our authorisation; it says we're not part of the Republic Armed Forces, and must leave."

"Inform... no, advise the Machine Spirit that we serve the inheritors of the Republic." Malachi suggested calmly, "Tell them, we wish to update them as to the tactical and strategic state of the galaxy."

"That might work." Hoban nodded and started typing.

"Give the man room to work." Malachi ordered his squad, "Anyone would think you'd never seen a man try and communicate with a Machine Spirit dating back to before the Dark Age of Technology before!"

* * *

><p>SYSTEM REBOOT COMPLET<p>

TIME SINCE LAST UPDATE: INDETERMINATE

TIME SINCE LAST COMUNICATION FROM SECTOR COMMAND: INDETERMINATE

INTRUDERS DETECTED, MAIN ACCESS CORDIOR

INTERNAL DEFENCES NON-FUCTIONING

SENDING ENCODED ID CHALANGE ON ALL GUARD FREQANCIES

RECIVING RESPONSE

ACSESS CODE RECIVED: CODE AUTHENTIC

PROCESSING...

PROCESSING...

UNABLE TO VERIFY LEGITIMACY OF ACSESS CODES

PROCESSING...

PROCESSING...

REACTIVATING BASE COMANDANT

PROCESSING...

BOLO COMBAT UNIT SRD-028-341 ONLINE AND ASSUMING DIRECT COMMAND

SET CONDITION ULTRA-VIOLET: BASE PERIMITER BREACHED BY UNKNOWN FORCES

ACTIVATING BOLO COMBAT UNIT HRK-693-241

PROCESSING...

BOLO COMBAT UNIT HRK-693-241 ONLINE

BOLO COMBAT UNIT HRK-693-241 MISSION OBJECTIVE: SECURE OR IRADICATE INTURDERS

FOR THE HONOUR OF THE REGIMENT!

* * *

><p>The massive door fell to the ground almost gracefully in the low gravity, the thin atmosphere keeping the sound from travailing too far, but even then, it sent out a cloud of dust and shook the ground for hundreds of meters. One of the Marines walked over to make sure it was clear of the frame, then the <em>Land Raider<em> pulled it clear. A Tech-Priest stood off to one side, silently enraged at the near sacrilegious treatment of what they considered a holy shrine, but the Astartes paid them little heed as they set about fortifying the entrance as best they could. Sitting some distance away, _Archie_ watched them with keen interest while he kept up his vigil of the area around the entrance. He had detected no sign of hostile forces, but there were still gaps in his coverage, no matter how he moved his remaining drones around. He contemplated deploying a second Battleview missile to fill the gaps, but they only had a finite supply, and he needed his commanders permission to expend them.

For a Bolo, inaction while humans laboured was an infuriating necessity; for all his terrible fire-power and knowledge, _Archie_ was in no way able to assist in the formation of barricades. Even his nimble service drones would have been more a hindrance than a help to the experienced Marines under the command of Sergeant Menelaus. Nor was he in a position to assist the running battle taking place over their heads, not if he was to maintain his guard over the dig-site. This burned against the very core of who and what he was, but he understood the necessity of remaining on station while humans fought and died in his stead. Once, when he had been a member of the 431st Battalion of the Dinochrome Brigade, he had been a part of a force that could have secured the nameless world against all but the most heavily armed and determined of attacks. Now he was alone, separated from his fellow Bolos by thousands of light years, facing an enemy he had no direct experience of fighting. Part of him was concerned that he'd fail in his duty to protect the humans around him, fail his commander.

Another part of him relished the possibility of once again entering the all-consuming crucible of combat.

* * *

><p>Bolo Unit HRK-693-241, better known to his comrades as <em>Hawksmoor<em>, made his way though the dark tunnels of the base as quickly as he could. The cold, careless millennia that had passed since the base's caretaker A.I. had had the power to deploy its army of repair drones for all but the most immediate and necessary of repairs had taken their toll on the high, vaulted ceilings and arching roadways that criss-crossed the system of natural cavers that the Concordiat Corps of Engineers had utilised to form the backbone of the supply depot to which he had been assigned. The Concordiat, and the Republic that had succeeded it, knew better than to discard anything that might one day be of use. Hence massive bunker complexes had been established on the fringes of human controlled space, and stocked with all the weapons and equipment of war.

_Hawksmoor_ rumbled through a room that seemed to stretch off into the distance. At first glance the chamber looked like it was playing host to an army ready for inspection, but a closer look revealed that the soldiers were in facts rank after rank of pristine, factory fresh battle armour, standing silently to attention in anticipation of an order that might never come. Another chamber housed a fleet of aerospace fighters, ranging from sleek interceptors and ground-attack craft all the way up to heavy bombers, transports and escorts. They were spaced out perfectly to allow maintenance crews to inspect them as and when needed, but had sat untouched since they had been placed there, countless centuries before. Some of the later models housed their own psychotronic brain, making them not too dissimilar for the Bolo that passed between their ranks, but their slumbered went uninterrupted.

A third chamber was filled floor to ceiling with shelves holding crates and boxes stretching off into the distance. Each was carefully labelled to indicate everything from camping equipment and entrenching tools, portable generators and mess kits, blankets, beds, boots and enough arms to take a small planet. Each container was tagged and logged, perfectly preserved by still intact vacuum-seals. Automated forklifts stood gathering dust, ready to retrieve any given item on command. Once, these fast stores had been intended to supply an army assembled for a planned incursion into Deng space in a bid to out-flank the Melconians, but the base had not received any official communications since the last supply ship had departed. _Hawksmoor_ knew that tens of thousands of years had passed since then, but he was in no way worried; humanity had a proven ability to not only survive, but thrive when all logic said that should be annihilated. It mattered not that he and his fellow Bolos in the depot had missed the war that they had been created for, for he knew that there would always be another war to fight.

What he didn't know was that his progress was being observed, and that some of the damage he was forced to make his way around had been done with the deliberate intent of delving him into a waiting ambush.

**To Be Continued...**


End file.
